


Everingham

by katharhino



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katharhino/pseuds/katharhino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance remark reminds Henry Crawford to do the right thing, and ride to Everingham instead of staying in London to flirt with Maria Rushworth. As a result, there is nothing to prevent Edmund from marrying Mary Crawford, or Henry from continuing his pursuit of Fanny with more determination than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Henry Crawford paused in his reading of the Times to stare as his sister entered the sunny breakfast room.

"Lord! It is barely eight o'clock, Mary! Couldn't you sleep?"

She tossed her head as she sat down. "A fine question from you, Henry. You have no more right to be up early than I do. Did you feel a sudden, strange longing to see the sunrise today?"

"What if I did? I am surprised you can remember there is such a thing as a sunrise," he retorted, laughing.

Mary had woken in a bright mood, full of anticipation for a certain meeting that should take place that evening, and she must relieve her overflowing energy by teasing her brother. It was natural, considering the occupation of her own mind, that her next tactical maneuver should be a foray into the state of her brother's heart.

"What a phlegmatic creature you are! Only a week returned from Portsmouth and you sit down to toast and eggs with the heartiest of appetites. I am really quite shocked at you."

A slight widening of his deep-set dark eyes betrayed Mr. Crawford a little, but he was accustomed to disguise, and his hand did not shake as he turned another page.

"I have no idea what you mean, Mary. Do you imply that my appetite is dangerous to my health? The eggs are soft-boiled and would not give a moment's discomfort to even the most delicate, which I am certainly not," he said in the blandest possible voice.

"Henry! The eggs may be soft, but you are as hard-hearted a person as I have ever met. Have you no tender recollections to disturb your appetite in the slightest? And reading the paper as calmly as if you had never met anyone of the family of Price -- for shame! I hope the eggs may give you indigestion after all."

"You know I have an excellent constitution," replied he, to all appearances unmoved.

The truth was that Mary's teasing conjectures had at first missed the mark altogether. Henry Crawford's mind had been occupied with racing results, and the results of the expected evening's entertainment, at which he should meet Mrs. Rushworth and resume an absorbing game he had not yet won. But his sister's persistence bore fruit after all. He was a person of great imagination, and unexpectedly for a moment he saw a vision as vivid as a painting: Fanny Price leaning with both hands against the wall of the sea walk at Portsmouth, eyes looking past him, but sparkling with the reflected glint of sunlight on white foam; her cheeks and nose a little reddened with sharp air and stiff breeze. For a moment Henry Crawford sat still, his gaze unfocused; then he turned back to his paper.

Provoked by his indifference, Mary poured herself a cup of coffee and lost herself in her own thoughts, which, judging by the smile on her lips, pleased her more than a little.

Mr. Crawford finished his toast with deliberation and stood up. "Mary, best of sisters, I believe I must end my visit sooner than I had wished."

This sudden announcement brought Mary round with a jolt. "What? I thought you stayed at least another week. Have you had news?"

"Not exactly, but duty calls, you know; although I have no doubt you would have me ignore it as long as possible. But I feel an urge to be dull and sensible, and therefore I should go at once while I have the chance. Such moments are rare enough -- they should be indulged when they come."

"You don't mean to leave today?"

"Yes, today I think. I shall ride to our sister's house and finish the journey tomorrow, but I would rather start at once than arrive too late," he replied.

"You won't stay for Mrs. Fraser's party this evening? I cannot go without you -- you promised to escort me!"

"I made no promise of the kind, you sly girl, and you know very well you can have any of a number of your friends fetch you. I have already been too lazy; Everingham really demands my attention."

"Surely a delay of one day cannot signify," said Mary with a petulant look. She had expected him to give in to her pressing at once.

"It does not signify to my business, but I know myself, and if I stay one more day, the one will grow to seven despite the strongest resolutions to the contrary," he said with unusual honesty. He did not expect her to understand, and she did not.

"Then make it seven, for heaven's sake, Henry! I cannot imagine what could send you flying away so fast!"

"No, Mary," he said affectionately, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I am absolutely determined, and it is your own fault."

"My fault? What can you mean?"

"You did, after all, allude to a certain Miss Price," he said over his shoulder as the door closed.

* * *

Mr. Crawford had determined to be exactly what his habits were not: steadfast and purposeful. The decision had been made swiftly, as he did everything. Fanny expected him to go to Everingham -- therefore he would go. It became apparent that charm alone would not win her; so he would be responsible and honorable and eager to do his duty: whatever would make her think well of him, that he would become. There was a kind of challenge in it that he accepted with enthusiasm, and which mostly compensated for the loss of the other challenge he had been pursuing. He had fully intended to make Mrs. Rushworth in love with him again, just to serve her right for being so cold. And he couldn't help but regret that her pride would remain victorious. There was an injustice in it that irked him. At the thought of Fanny's eyes, though -- he could see those eyes before him, gentle and trusting, and then hurt and disappointed. No, it was too great a risk. Her strict propriety must govern his actions, at least for a while. The conquering of Maria Rushworth must take second place to that.

He arrived at Mansfield Parsonage in good time, and did not omit to call at the Park, certain of a warm reception from Sir Thomas. The Bertrams were surprised, but placidly pleased to see him, and Sir Thomas invited him into the study without any hinting necessary. Though Mr. Crawford answered Sir Thomas's repeated questions after the rest of the family, he would not be swerved from the real purpose of his visit; which was tactfully but warmly to recommend that Fanny be fetched as soon as might be.

"My sister would have been glad to bring her to London, had I not left her without the resources to do so. You must understand my feelings, sir. I would not be impertinent to you, indeed I hesitate to mention it at all; but the anxiety I cannot help feeling at any threat to her health..." he let the sentence trail unfinished, and Sir Thomas caught him up at once.

"Certainly, I would not allow Fanny to put her health in danger, if I thought such a thing were possible; but perhaps you are too partial, Mr. Crawford. Your wish to protect her from harm is commendable and natural, given your feelings toward her, but perhaps you imagine harm where no harm is. I have heard no wish from Fanny herself, nor any ill report." Sir Thomas, it was easy to see, thought Mr. Crawford overstepped his bounds.

Mr. Crawford eagerly countered this by praising Fanny's humility in never complaining, describing her situation with passionate zeal, and concluding with a veiled admiration of Sir Thomas's generosity and Christian compassion. Such praise, from an avowed lover, Sir Thomas could not contradict. He had no inclination to deny any charms of Fanny's to her suitor, nor to disclaim the compliment to himself which seemed only justice. And really in this case there was no harm in giving way to all Mr. Crawford's suggestions, especially as the idea he mentioned had crossed Sir Thomas's own mind more than once. A little resistance was necessary for Sir Thomas's pride, but the two gentlemen parted in perfect harmony with each other, and each thinking equally well of the other's determination and virtue.

Thus Mr. Crawford won his way with a little art, which Fanny would have been ashamed to practice. His end was good, and his means had no real bad in them. He mostly spoke with sincerity, and if he exaggerated just a little, who could blame him?


	2. Chapter 2

Fanny, sitting in her room with Susan, waited for the post with a determination to expect disappointment again, but agitated by an irrepressible hope for joy all the same. The date of Edmund's arrival in London had burned before her inner eye for the past many weeks; and her longing to be at Mansfield, at certain moments of the day, seemed to increase a hundredfold. This yearning filled her heart the most just as she knew the post would come, and although she tried to squash it firmly, she could never quite rid herself of the idea "perhaps today they will ask for me."

There was a general shout from downstairs at the arrival of the post, and their father's voice could be heard bellowing her name. Fanny met Susan's eyes, and they went down the stairs together. Susan could not understand what made Fanny so anxious, but she could offer support; and Fanny was grateful to be able to clutch her hand as they entered the little parlor.

Mr. Price half-tossed a letter at his daughters as they entered the room; Fanny caught it with trembling fingers, but it slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. She stooped for it, and rising, turned it over: it was addressed in strong black writing, Sir Thomas's hand unmistakably.

Her heart beating hard, Fanny would have slipped away to read her letter in quiet upstairs, but her father stopped her before she could turn away.

"From your uncle, is it, girl?" Mr. Price guessed shrewdly -- of course, he had examined the letter well before he gave it to Fanny. "Well, open it then."

In her nervousness she could hardly break the seal. Susan helped her, their fingers tangling over it. It was not much more than a brief note, courteously but not affectionately worded, requesting that Fanny prepare herself for a return, as Edmund would fetch her at the end of the week on his way back to Mansfield.

Susan's quicker eyes overtook Fanny's as she peered over her shoulder.

"Oh Fanny!"

Fanny caught up to Susan's pointing finger.

"Fanny! I am to come with you! Don't you see? He's invited me!"

"Oh Susan!" she returned in equal ecstasy, then quickly added, "If father and mother agree." In spite of all evidence to the contrary she persisted in attributing as tender feelings as her own to everyone around her, and it would have pained her to think her father and mother knew how anxious she was to leave them.

But Fanny might have spared herself the worry. Her father merely roared, in great amusement, that if Sir Thomas wanted two useless females instead of one, he was welcome to them; and her mother had not a tear to spare for her oldest daughters. Against Betsy's squirming shoulder, she bid them to carry her best wishes to Aunt Bertram. That was all. Fanny and Susan were left to rejoice in sisterly harmony on the stairs as they returned to their room.

Susan could not keep still; she danced around the room while pulling dresses from the closet and wondering aloud which day Edmund would come. Fanny, silent in her happiness, followed behind her, folding neatly what Susan dropped.

"Fanny, do you think he might come on Thursday? Perhaps he may be early. We ought to be prepared. Do you think my Aunt Bertram will like this dress? Oh, but you must help me, Fanny. I shall be so petrified to face Aunt Norris! William says she is a dragon!"

"Now Susan," remonstrated Fanny automatically.

"Don't be prim, Fanny. William says you think just the same, although you are trying to set me a good example, I know. Oh Fanny!" grasping Fanny's hands in a happy twirl. "By Saturday at the very latest I shall be at Mansfield!"

"Yes. At Mansfield," Fanny echoed. And silently her thoughts repeated too, "he might come on Thursday. Soon I will see him."

She had not time to reflect much until late that night, for Susan was too excited to sleep quickly, and her first thrill worn off, she had a great many questions that required thoughtful answers from Fanny. Finally Susan fell silent, and in the stillness, listening to her sister's breathing, Fanny thought of Edmund, trying to calm her heart as she rested her body. But she could not suppress her joy at the idea of his coming. She would not dwell on the fact that Edmund left Miss Crawford to come to her, and that his feelings on the occasion might not be as unalloyed as hers. She could not wish for a happier hour than the one that would take her back to Mansfield, and in his company.

* * *

Edmund arrived exactly as planned, on Friday. Fanny's trunk had been packed for days in mere anticipation, and Susan's had been unpacked and repacked at least three times a day for an equal period of time. Though they assured each other that it must be hours yet before Edmund could possibly arrive, the number of times they said it did not exactly encourage serenity in either.

Fanny had actually opened her mouth to remind Susan that it was still early when she heard a step in the hall; she rose hastily, but before she reached the door, it opened and Edmund entered. She had not even time to look at him; he was drawing her close into a cousinly embrace that dazzled her senses. She was conscious only of warmth, and then chill as he let her go. She hardly knew how to stand, and walked across the room and back to the table without taking in any sensation at all, either the daylight on her face or the soft cadence of her mother's weary voice.

"My dear aunt! Cousin Susan," Edmund exclaimed, and looking up, Fanny caught the most joyful smile shed over them all, even Betsy -- who looked suspiciously at him, as if she distrusted any appearance of happiness. "I hope you are ready, dear Susan," continued Edmund. "I know you are leaving your home for the first time, but I look forward to becoming better acquainted with another cousin on this visit. You could not forget Portsmouth, of course, but you must think of Mansfield as another home just as dear as the first; so you will not be homesick at all if we can help it. Fanny will prevent any repining -- will you not, Fanny? She will share her love for Mansfield with you, for that is a boundless fund that cannot be diminished by dividing."

Such jaunty, almost teasing volubility was not like Edmund, and the energy of his voice rang a note she had never heard before. Her senses cleared, Fanny understood all too quickly, her powers of observation keen despite the pleading of her wrenched heart. This warmth was not for her. It belonged to another. This was Edmund in love and triumphant, not as she had scarcely dared to hope, but as she had feared to imagine. No need to wonder what he would look like as a successful lover -- this was it before her, mercilessly piercing in the brilliance of his happiness. Fanny knew at once that before he left London he had asked Mary Crawford to marry him.

But there was no time for Fanny to recover in private. The trunks were brought down and loaded quickly in spite of a little too much help from everybody. Susan kissed her mother goodbye, crying and laughing at once, and they were off, the boys racing after the coach with loud yelps until it turned the corner.

Edmund could not speak before Susan, but he looked his joy to Fanny every mile of the way to Mansfield. And little as she wished to, Fanny kept meeting his eyes. She tried to speak to Susan as much as possible, to explain the joy Susan ought to feel at each stage, to point out the changing landscape, the familiar landmarks as they drew closer. In desperation and dread of his speaking looks, she even drew Edmund into the conversation, asking his opinion of the spring weather and soliciting his memories to recount for Susan. But Edmund, though willing to contribute to Susan's entertainment, was too full to bursting of his own news to be completely distracted. All Fanny could do was keep talking to Susan and keep her eyes on the window.

Fanny expected she could escape any confidence with him at least for the evening, but even as they drew up and Susan sprang out in great excitement, he caught Fanny's hand with a low murmur, "Fanny, I must speak with you, soon." She could not wonder. To whom would he impart such rejoicing if not to his friend and cousin? Only she could not help at the same time reflecting bitterly that the very dearness of their friendship, so long cherished, had become nothing but a curse and a burden to her.

A little comfort, a very little, did Fanny draw from her Aunt Bertram's embrace, warm and actually eager. Her aunt had come out the door and almost down the steps to meet them. Her greeting to Susan, too, was flattering, everything Fanny could have wished, and she hoped Susan's delight would make up for her own depressed spirits.

The evening passed in the serene, contented harmony with which Mansfield always celebrated a happy event, even the return of two prodigals. Aunt Norris had not much to say beyond praising Sir Thomas assiduously for his generosity to Susan; even she could not invent any errands for her unworthy nieces that could have any weight on such a night, although she did quiz Fanny about her family. Lady Bertram repeated several times "I am glad you are back, Fanny" as she subsided from her unusual outburst of enthusiasm at the door. Sir Thomas kindly asked Susan several questions about the journey, which she answered more boldly than Fanny would have; but Fanny could see that Susan's ready quickness suited Sir Thomas much better than her own timidity. This did not make Fanny unhappy; she was proud of Susan at every turn: proud of her neatly brushed hair, proud of how easily she modulated her voice to a Mansfield gentleness, proud of her respectful attention to Sir Thomas. She felt that Susan's first evening at Mansfield was a great success.

But as for herself, it was terrible to Fanny that she could not enjoy the peaceful atmosphere of Mansfield as she ought, as she had expected to. She felt the difference from Portsmouth, and was grateful, but it was all under the shadow of Edmund's news, which she must hear tomorrow.

Fanny and Susan were pressed to go to bed early, and both agreed readily, each for her own reasons. Fanny could feel Edmund's eye on her; and Susan, though excited by new sensations and experiences, had tired more than she at first realized.

Susan was to have her own room next to Fanny's, but as they went up the stairs she leaned to whisper in Fanny's ear, "Can't I share with you tonight, Fanny? Just for tonight? I'm afraid I'll be lonely -- everything seems so big!" As this was exactly what Fanny vividly remembered from her first days at Mansfield, she was immediately sympathetic. And for some reason Fanny herself felt a certain reluctance to be left alone.

Worn out as she was, Susan's mind was still stimulated enough to keep her awake for a good hour, whispering to Fanny of all her impressions and hopes. Tonight Fanny welcomed the distraction. The heart that had been full of seeing Edmund soon, now shrank from the very thought of him.


	3. Chapter 3

Fanny could not keep avoiding Edmund all day, after he had particularly requested to speak to her. Though managing to put off their conversation half the morning, her good sense reminded her that the longer she waited, the more pain she inflicted on both herself and him. With the idea of pleasing him and putting an end to her own torture, she went out to walk in the shrubbery before dinner, taking care that he should know her intention. As she had expected, he followed her at once. She only had time for a deep breath and a quick resolution to be perfectly calm.

"Thank you," he said, pressing her hand. "I am sure you must have seen how desperately I longed for an opportunity to talk with you. I am near bursting with my news, Fanny. I only want to share it with you to be completely happy."

"I hope you know I am always glad to share in your happiness, Edmund; and I have missed our talks," was her quiet reply, which was true as far as it went.

"Fanny." he stopped their walk as if to emphasize the momentous importance of his words. "I am loved -- I am accepted. Such a return to my feelings as I hardly imagined! She -- Miss Crawford -- Mary -- loves me, enough to take me as I am. And you know, Fanny, I have little to offer her indeed. A clergyman's wife! I think she never imagined herself in such a position. But all that is forgotten, in her generosity, her perfect charity!"

Fanny thought that Edmund's generosity was more to be admired than hers, in knowingly marrying a woman who completely disapproved of his profession and was likely to complain of his lack of fortune. But then, she must not think such things anymore. The moment had come. She had made a little effort to like Miss Crawford before, but now it was time to like her whether she would or no. The motivations of duty, rather than gratitude, must bear a result.

She saw that Edmund waited, more and more anxiously, for her to say something. Her silence must not be prolonged.

She spoke. "I am not surprised, Edmund. I guessed what your news would be. But I am --" she struggled a moment, and continued softly but without a falter, "very pleased for you that in the end, it is love that has the upper hand, and no worldly consideration. I think the better of her for it."

He clasped her hand, wordlessly for a moment; but only a moment, for like all lovers he must talk. "You are prejudiced, of course," he said, laughing, then adding more seriously, "It is such a relief to my feelings to talk with you, Fanny. I have not even told my father yet, but I could not conceal anything from you; I never have, you know."

"I know," she said, surprised herself that she could reply so calmly. Her own words sounded chilly to her, but he did not notice anything amiss, it seemed. "How long does Miss Crawford stay in town?"

"She comes back in another fortnight. It cannot be too soon for me. It is not just that I am miserable without her, Fanny. I think she grows weary of London. The people there, her friends, are not the sort of company she would be used to here: no intelligent or serious conversation at all."

The discerning taste Edmund attributed to his beloved was truer of his wishes than her real character, Fanny caught herself thinking -- but again, she must learn to approve rather than criticize. If her good hopes and expectations for the future could of themselves make Mary Crawford a worthy wife for Edmund, she would soon be perfection itself. Thus Fanny resolved; and her resolution impelled her to say, "I think she has learnt to love Mansfield."

"And its people!" said Edmund eagerly, then, flushing, "No, you needn't smile Fanny, I didn't mean myself. I think Mary misses you, too. Since you are to be cousins, you must love each other even more than before. You know it always made me happy that the two of you should be good friends. I think you each influence the other for the better -- your gentleness and her high spirits."

Fanny had no real reply to this, so she steeled herself and asked, "When is the wedding to be?"

"Not long," was Edmund's cheerful reply. "We have no reason to delay, if my father agrees. Everything conspires to make my happiness, Fanny. She does not wish a long engagement either. We know our own minds."

They continued walking for nearly hour, for Edmund could not find an end to praising his Mary and explaining his future plans in detail: how he would ready everything at Thornton Lacey, not forgetting to clear space for her harp; how they would take a wedding trip, perhaps to the lakes, perhaps even to Ireland; all that he would do to make Mary happy and entertained in his small house, how he would add to his library; and much, much more.

When she at last escaped and went into the house, Fanny had to sit with her Aunt Bertram until dinner. And then at table Edmund must make his announcement to everybody, and she had to listen to the general approbation of his choice. Sir Thomas was extremely pleased. He had always liked the Crawfords, and he did not forget to think that this marriage should bring Fanny and Mr. Crawford closer together. Lady Bertram thought everyone should be married, if they could manage it without giving her any trouble, and Susan thought a wedding would be enormously entertaining.

It was not until after dinner that Fanny could go upstairs to her beloved East Room and shut the door, and sit down by the fire to have her cry. She drew up her stool, pulled her shawl round her shoulders, and stared at the flames; and to her own surprise no tears, no agony, no passion followed. She had been swamped in misery half the morning and all through dinner, and yet she could sit very calmly and think, "he is now lost forever." Sad and wretched as her feelings were, the relief of dread and uncertainty for the moment almost outweighed grief. She gazed stupidly into the white heat of the coals, and after some time she picked up a book that was lying on the table and read until bedtime. She went to bed without stopping to pore over her grief; her mind dull and heavy, she let her eyes close to sleep.

* * *

The next day was Sunday. Fanny continued through the morning in such a stupor that she lacked even the energy to reproach herself for her inattention to Dr. Grant's sermon. After church she went up to her room to change her dress, trailing her hand idly along the banister. She took such a time in fact, that Mrs. Norris came after her to scold her into good spirits. That lady had so many virtuous and improving ideas that she would have been deeply mortified if she knew that Fanny had not heard a word of her wise lecture.

In Lady Bertram's sitting room Fanny found Susan in her own usual spot, next to the couch sorting embroidery threads, which was rather a shock and almost succeeded in startling her out of her dull misery. Feeling oddly uneasy, Fanny walked across the room a few times, and at last wandered down to the library to get a book. The library being empty, she gave in to temptation and stayed there, curling herself up in her uncle's big leather chair near the window. An hour passed, perhaps two hours.

Through the library door she heard at last Mrs. Norris's voice calling her name.

"Fanny! Where have you hidden yourself, sly girl? Come out at once!"

Fanny shrunk back between the sheltering arms of the chair for a moment. But of course, the few minutes of quiet she would gain by staying would not be worth the price she would pay in lectures and harassment. She got up, set the book on the side table and pushed open the door.

It was not as bad as it might be. Mrs. Norris had only a limited range of demands that could be asked on a Sunday. But she had forgotten the bottle of cordial she had promised Sister Bertram, and she had so depended on having it today. Surely it would be but a moment for Fanny to step off down to her house and get it. She thought reading all day was the most unhealthy pursuit in the world, indeed she wondered at Fanny! Why, Fanny looked positively ill. Mrs. Norris prescribed a walk, and if she were going to walk, it would be so convenient if she would go to the White House on her way.

Fanny did not like being forced into exertion, as she felt a dull headache coming on. But a solitary walk might do her good after all. Being sent off alone was preferable to sitting in Mrs. Norris's company doing plain work -- or anything in Mrs. Norris's company, really.

Even alone in the cool air, she found it impossible to think. The errand done, she was returning up through the park when the idle thought occurred that it would be a lovely day to ride. All at once she thought of Edmund getting the horse for her. And then all the memories of his dear kindnesses came over her and her eyes were so full of tears she could not see the way ahead of her. She turned into the arbor, dropped onto a bench, and wept her heart out for half an hour. Then it was necessary to sit an equal time with tears coming doggedly into her eyes and blinked away again, until she felt that her red and swollen face had recovered enough to be seen. She said very firmly to herself, "This is the last time." before she got up and went into the house.

She returned just in time for tea, and Lady Bertram looked round for her fretfully on her entrance. Small comfort as it was to be wanted, and to sit in her accustomed corner near her aunt's sofa, she did not have it long. Her headache had returned -- no wonder after all her weeping -- and she was forced to go to bed early.


	4. Chapter 4

Fanny looked so very wretched at breakfast that even Sir Thomas noticed.

"What is the matter, Fanny?" he inquired, peering at her.

"I do feel tired," she said, which was true, because she had not slept well.

"You are not unhappy?"

"Oh, sir! I am so happy to be back at Mansfield, and I have Susan here too, thanks to your kindness. I am sure it is just fatigue and will pass."

"Well, if it does not I shall call Sprague and have his opinion. In the meantime, be sure to take your ride and do not tire yourself."

Fanny had a horror of being examined. But since she could not say "it is only a broken heart occasioned by the engagement of your son Edmund" she had to agree meekly and determine inwardly to appear better by sheer force of will if necessary.

Sir Thomas had not done, however. "Fanny -- that is an order, my dear. You will rest, and ride every day. As glad as we are to have you back among us, it would extremely foolish to allow you to endanger your health running errands here and there, before you are strong enough. I know you well enough, I hope, to trust you to obey my wishes in this, when you know that my motives are only affection for you."

"Yes -- thank you, uncle," said Fanny, her eyes filling helplessly though she tried to resist her own weakness.

But in spite of the clear air of Mansfield, such a change from Portsmouth, Fanny was not quick to recover as Sir Thomas would have expected. He began to fear what Henry Crawford would say if he were to return and see Fanny like this. She took her rides faithfully every day and gradually a little strength returned to her, but she looked as pale and spiritless as ever; and she was not allowed to make herself useful as she loved to do, which might have helped to distract her.

In fact, everyone at Mansfield had settled back into contentment but Fanny. Since Fanny had been forbidden to exert herself, Susan now sat with Lady Bertram oftener than her sister did, and it appeared that her company was just as efficacious for Lady Bertram's comfort. Susan was eager to please and her merry spirits amused and entertained her aunt, who delighted to teach her ladylike propriety, the only subject in which she was fully qualified to instruct.

As for Edmund, his conversations were now peppered so liberally with "Mary" that Fanny could hardly endure his company for half an hour with composure. His impatience to see her grew each day that she stayed in London, and his only relief was confiding in Fanny.

He met Fanny in the garden one day, and she saw that he carried a letter in his hand.

"Mary has written again to put off her return," were his first words, uttered with such a look of melancholy, that Fanny had to restrain herself from speaking, lest she voice any of her private thoughts about Mary.

"What excuse does she offer?" asked Fanny when she could speak with moderation.

"I would let you see the letter but -- there are certain phrases -- things meant only for my eyes --" Edmund flushed as he spoke. "At any event, I cannot be angry, she is so tender; begs pardon so sweetly. But her friends have made it such a point, their last chance to have her before her marriage, she says. And she has so much to do ordering wedding clothes, she cannot possibly come before next week."

Fanny shook her head, but she knew it was no use to say anything. As it was, Edmund had seen the motion and replied too eagerly, "I know it must be selfish of me to want her back, in defiance of any other duty, but I cannot help it, Fanny."

"I do not think it selfish at all."

"You are so sympathetic, Fanny," said Edmund, touching her hand as he often did.

Fanny herself had received a letter from Mary not many days before, scrawled in haste and with the force of Mary's personality in every word.

"Being a woman, you cannot condemn me for prolonging my stay in town, Fanny," she had written. "I am lost in a delightful tumble of silks and bonnets and cannot possibly tear myself away before I have decided what color evening dress will look well in Edmund's drawing room. Besides, I am determined to enjoy myself before I must renounce the world forever. I am half-convinced that betrothal is the most pleasant state a woman can enjoy -- although of course I cannot say for sure, not having experienced marriage yet. But I have my suspicions, Fanny! I find myself the subject of more interest than ever in my life, and of course I am darkly mysterious when questioned about anything. Of course you cannot say any of this to Edmund -- he would not understand in the least, I daresay, but he is a man. Dearest of men, yes, but still a man. If he complains of my absence you must tell him that if he wants me he may come and fetch me."

Fanny threw down the letter in disgust and resolved to tell Edmund no such thing, though whenever he knew that she had any communication from Mary he begged her to divulge every detail. She was obliged to put him off by saying that it was all about Mary's wedding dress, which was only partly true.

But this letter helped Fanny, though she little suspected it. In anger at Mary, she found a distraction from grief. She decided it was useless to try to like Mary Crawford. Their characters were too greatly opposed. In fact, for the moment, Fanny could hardly even like Edmund; it was so unworthy of him to be taken in by Mary's meaningless charm. She could hardly believe that he would persist in such besotted blindness -- surely his sense, his reason, must protest; and yet he went on carrying Mary's letters about in his pockets and rereading them in corners. Fanny gave them both up for hopeless.

She began to look a little more herself now; spring had burst into warmth and it could not help but cheer her a little. She had been reading a great deal, up in the East Room, and as the weather grew warmer, out in the garden. Sometimes she walked restlessly there, longing for something to do. How often she had wished for time of her own; and later at Portsmouth, how she had longed for the peace of Mansfield. But time at her own disposal, and peace to enjoy it, did not really provide any joy at all with no one to share them and no hope to animate her days. It occurred to her one day as she sat in the window looking out over new planted fields bordered with shining clusters of early wildflowers, that she actually looked forward to Mary Crawford's return with something like desperation. It would be a change at least.

* * *

On the morning after Miss Crawford's arrival in Mansfield, Edmund made a very early call at the Parsonage, and he spent almost the whole morning there. After some hours, they walked into the morning room at the Park, Mary on Edmund's arm, to present themselves shining and smiling to all the Mansfield family. Congratulations having been given and received on all sides, Mary Crawford went straight to Fanny and embraced her with great affection.

"Oh Fanny! You cannot imagine how I missed you! We must find some corner to hide ourselves away and talk," drawing Fanny over to a sofa in the nook. Half-hidden from the others, she squeezed Fanny tight again, repeating "Oh how happy I am" about a dozen times.

"I am very glad to see you," was Fanny's rather stiff reply, and she told herself she was glad, really, to have Mary here at last. Just these first moments would be painful, but better to accustom herself to it as quickly as possible, so the hurt would begin to dull.

Mary laughed at her. "Fanny, you are as calm as ever, but I know your heart, hide it as you will." (Fanny trembled at the very idea.) "You must let me run on a little, sensible as you are. I have not had a real, satisfying conversation with anyone for goodness knows how many weeks. Not one of my friends can understand what I have done in accepting Edmund. They think I am mad. I've thrown away fortunes and doomed myself to a life of country boredom. Oh, don't look like that, I know it is dreadful. But you understand: you with your ideals will approve a love match. There, I still blush when I confess it."

"I thought you were enjoying yourself in town," ventured Fanny.

"I could not help enjoying myself, Fanny -- you know that. It is not in my character to be dismal at a ball."

Fanny saw that any attempt at a reproach would be wasting her breath; and Miss Crawford had changed the subject already.

"Fanny, dear, I have not had a chance to ask you yet, but I know you will not refuse. You must be my bridesmaid."

Not having expected such an invitation, Fanny hesitated and stuttered in her reply. "She would be -- if Miss Crawford were sure -- an honor -- "

"No, no, do not be surprised. I would have no one but you. But Fanny! 'Miss Crawford'? Is that how you address a cousin?"

Fanny was distressed, but her composure recovered, she said as warmly as she could contrive, "I know -- Mary, but I am such a creature of habit, I am always slow to change. I hope you will not be offended if I forget, for I intend no coldness toward you. You must know I could intend no such thing."

This answer pleased, and they must go on to talk much more about the wedding. That is, of course, Mary talked and Fanny listened. But as the conversation went on Fanny thought she grew stronger and stronger, and she even asked some questions on topics of great interest, such as the fabric of Mary's wedding dress and what her new bonnets looked like. Perhaps she had become dull to the pain, or perhaps talking about practical details did not hurt as much as the very idea itself.

Fanny's new strength carried her through the evening, and her fortitude was required, as Miss Crawford stayed to dinner and the Grants came up to tea. Many speeches were given in celebration of their upcoming connection, by Mr. Grant and Sir Thomas. Mrs. Norris had many ingratiating comments to make too: praises both of Sir Thomas and herself. She could hardly speak highly enough of her own obliging generosity in leaving the parsonage vacant for Grants and Crawfords.

After tea Mary played and sang, and Fanny had the unhappy privilege of watching Edmund unsuspected while he gazed at his beloved with all of his adoration unveiled in his eyes. Her heart sank, and the forced cheer that she had been sustaining by mere power of will failed her. He was captivated, ensnared -- caught by charm and liveliness and wit. Despite her resolution to be optimistic, Fanny feared for him. Edmund was infatuated; all knowledge of her flaws seemed melted away. She feared for them both. What would happen when the pedestal crumbled?

That evening, as Susan and Fanny went up to bed together and were saying goodnight, Susan put her arms around Fanny and said gently "You are sad, sister dear."

Fanny burst into tears.

"Oh Fanny," said Susan, as if she were comforting one of her little brothers on a scraped knee, "what's the matter? Don't cry, Fanny."

Fanny went on crying nonetheless, and she would say nothing, no matter how sweetly Susan pleaded. Fanny, the repository of many confidences, could not bring herself to make any of her own. She had never had a sister, really, and it had not occurred to her that Susan could comfort her as well as the other way around.

After some time, Fanny raised her head, feeling relieved, but ashamed. "I am so sorry," she choked; and Susan petted her and murmured to her. And then she was tucking Fanny into bed like a child and whispering her to go to sleep, which command Fanny obeyed at once, emptied of all passion and tired out with her own grief.

The wedding was to take place in the first week of June, and now the only thing left to disturb Fanny's settled mind, and add a sharp note of apprehension to her deadened sorrow, was the expectation of Henry Crawford's arrival at the end of the month.


	5. Chapter 5

One morning Edmund found Fanny just after breakfast, cutting some columbines and lily-of-the-valley in the garden, and asked if she would walk to the Parsonage with him.

"Mary asked for you," he said. "I believe it is some matter she on which she wishes to consult with you, a subject on which I am supposed to be ignorant." His whole face glowed with delight at being kept in ignorance.

Fanny sighed, but said easily enough that she would be glad to walk with him if he would wait until she had taken her flowers in to her aunt, who had asked especially whether columbines were up yet. In twenty minutes they had started down the lane, and Edmund for once remained silent. His head turning first one way and then another, showed that he was enjoying, as much as Fanny did, the beauties of the glorious morning, the green everywhere and the fresh damp scents of spring.

Fanny felt for the moment so peaceful that after a while she remarked herself on the sunlight. "The spring sunlight is so much lighter and merrier than a summer sun, do not you think? In summer it beats and scorches and weighs on us so much more heavily, but this does not even quite warm through, it just touches with heat and brightness."

"Yes, I quite agree; very well said," was all his answer, but he said it heartily, and Fanny was content.

After a moment, he rejoined, "We have had so little conversation lately, Fanny. I have sometimes thought you silent and almost sad, but perhaps that is because I have so little chance to speak with you. I hope you are well. I wish for every person on earth to be happy at this moment."

Fanny was startled. She had not thought that he would observe so much. After a moment, she answered, "I am unsettled, cousin; there are so many changes going on at once that..."

She paused, and he took it up quickly, with satisfaction, "Yes, I understand you, so much bustle and busyness cannot be pleasant to a person of your temperament. I know your retiring habits, Fanny. But I hope you will be happy all the same, when all the unpleasant confusion has passed." Coloring, he added, "Perhaps after -- in a little while perhaps you will come to visit us. I know nothing would please Mary so much. How charming and sensible we would all be together!" Fortunately Edmund did not seem to need an answer to this. He appeared to be dwelling dreamily on the picture he had painted for himself.

They entered the Parsonage garden, and as they rounded the hedge and came in sight of the drawing room windows, the door flew open and Mary danced out. "What kept you so long? You've dawdled in the lane enjoying the morning, perhaps, and I forgive you, for you could have no idea. Guess who is here?" She took both their hands and drew them in.

Fanny's heart sank. It was not a difficult guess, and she felt with exasperation that her morning's peace was shattered.

Sure enough, as they entered the room a familiar dark, compact figure at the window turned to greet them, crossing the room to shake Edmund's hand heartily first, and then to take Fanny's. He did not quite kiss it, but he lifted it almost to his face, and Fanny felt an uncomfortable hot blush rise across her cheekbones. She could sense Edmund looking at her.

"Miss Price," said Mr. Crawford, and she heard his remembered voice, warm and vibrant. "I am so pleased to see you again, and even better, to see you looking so well. Mansfield agrees with you as nothing else."

"Thank you, Mr. Crawford, it does," she said. It was a long moment before she could look up at him, but he had turned and begun speaking to Edmund about his journey, and while he spoke her blush drained away and she felt safe again. He had that talent of making the whole party easy and good-humored together, she had to acknowledge. She had never understood it, but it was a talent which was hard to resist, all the same. He looked well, not handsome, for he never had been, but slightly brown, and glowing with well-being.

When they all sat down, he placed himself near her, but not so near as to make her more than usually uncomfortable. "We must speak, you know, Miss Price," he said, and when she looked up she saw his dark eyes laughing to her, with her. "We must speak before our companions fall silent just gazing at each other. Tell me, your sister Susan came with you, did she not? Is she well?"

Clever Mr. Crawford! She had no intention of being anything but coldly polite, but the subject of her sister could not but animate Fanny a little, and she replied more extensively than she otherwise might have. "Yes, thank you. She is here, thanks to our uncle Bertram's generosity, and it is so pleasant to have her as a companion. I would have been sorry to lose her when I left Portsmouth, just when I was getting to know her a little and find things to talk about and read together. But how did you know she was here, sir?"

At that he almost looked confused, and she saw him exchange a glance with his sister. "Why, Mary told me, of course," he said, and that seemed a natural enough explanation, but that he seemed to change color himself, and even Mary laughed at him.

He continued the conversation hurriedly. "And does Miss Susan love Mansfield as you do? Have you taught her your own adoration, how to value each stone and blade?"

"I cannot help but love Mansfield, for it is my home. It is still new to Susan, but I know that she will find it so when she has lived here longer," said Fanny, frowning a little at his teasing.

"I know it is your home, and I admire your devotion, Miss Price," he said repentantly, but still laughingly. "Do not think I mock you. But at the moment it must be exceedingly dull, with all everyone's attention on your cousin's marriage."

This observation was so near the truth that Fanny stumbled over her reply that "she wished to be of help in the preparations."

"But how do you spend your evenings? You must be sorely wearied with talk of wedding plans by evening, even you with your unshakeable patience. Perhaps you will allow me to entertain you all, since I cannot advise on the purchase of linens or the amount of china. We could read -- you like good reading, I think, Miss Price?"

Fanny was again embarrassed at having such an invitation directed at her personally. She said that she was sure her uncle and aunt would be happy to see Mr. Crawford at any time.

"Oh cold, Fanny!' began Mary, who had been listening to at least part of the conversation after all. But Edmund shook his head at her, and she left her reproach unfinished. Fanny was horribly uneasy, and would have taken her leave for the soothing sunshine again, had not the particular request for her presence made it impossible.

Her fears were somewhat allayed, however, when Mr. Crawford drew back, and spoke to Edmund again. He did not press her as she had dreaded, and she almost wondered if she had offended him -- a result much to be hoped for! Mary drew her away, however, and they left the gentlemen to their own conversation while they went upstairs to Mary's room.

It seemed the matter Mary could not decide had to do with her jewelry. She wanted to wear something her brother had given her, but not a necklace, for Edmund was giving her a very beautiful one as a wedding present. She had not seen it, so the dilemma of choosing earrings to go with it demanded the utmost of delicacy. Fanny stood patiently by while earring after earring was held up for her contemplation. But as she could not say what would look the best, it ended with Mary throwing herself on her bed with a sigh and despairing of ever making up her mind.

* * *

As promised, Henry Crawford came to dine at the Park that evening. He spent some time with Sir Thomas, but on their joining the ladies he at once applied to Fanny for a choice of reading matter. She felt that everyone was looking at her, and, halting again, she remembered in a flash of relief Mr. Crawford reading to them before, and suggested that everyone liked Shakespeare. But then, tragedy or comedy, which would suit better, was the next question. The decision crept agonizingly on for nearly a quarter of an hour. Sir Thomas, amused, would not interfere with Mr. Crawford's managing of Fanny, but at last Susan asked for a tragedy, and Lady Bertram, who knew no difference at all, suggested that the loveliest speeches were in that German play. After some more discussion, it was determined that she meant Danish, and therefore must be referring to _Hamlet_.

"An excellent idea, Lady Bertram," said Mr. Crawford energetically. "I perfectly agree that Hamlet's soliloquies are some of the finest to read or to hear."

The book was found, and he began. Once again, as before, Fanny succumbed little by little, try as she would to resist, to the charm of his voice. She at last could not help looking up at him. His head bent over the book, eyes shaded by his contracted brows, and his expressive face reflected the fear, anger, hopes, and loves of the various characters. Fanny could not take her eyes from him. At last in turning a page he happened to glance up at her; his eyes met hers with surprise and pleasure, and Fanny instantly bent to her work again.

Two scenes passed, the ghost appeared and disappeared, and it was pronounced a good beginning and enough for the night. He came to sit just across from Fanny, and addressed her just as she had feared.

"I had almost forgotten how much I like _Hamlet_. It is one of my favorite plays to read."

"Are they not all your favorites, Mr. Crawford?" asked Fanny dryly.

He laughed. "You are harsh upon me, Miss Price, but perhaps with truth. I really do like _Hamlet_ , though. Who could resist such a beginning? You could not, I am sure. Do you think the ghost a real spirit?"

Fanny could not refuse to answer so direct a question, though she thought he was being flippant. "Of course I do not believe in ghosts, Mr. Crawford, but my opinion on them is not really important either to the story or to the appreciation of the rest of the play."

"I venture to disagree with you. Hamlet is such a fascinating character; I always wonder what he is really thinking. Do you think he believes in the ghost?"

"Why should he not? Such a vision, unsurpassed by anything in his experience, would it not carry conviction?" she replied, remembering only half-way through the sentence to keep her voice distant and uninterested.

"Perhaps he only looked for an excuse to hate his uncle. He's a scholar after all, our Hamlet -- would he really believe in phantoms?"

"But that is wicked!" exclaimed Fanny. She had never heard such an odd theory before. "If he did not really believe the ghost, then what justification could he find for his actions? We should surely condemn him instead of admiring him." But as she spoke, betrayed into a more unguarded enthusiasm by her interest in the subject, she looked up and saw Sir Thomas's eyes on her, and heard the silence of the rest of the room, and nothing Henry would say could convince her to carry the discussion any further.


	6. Chapter 6

Much to Fanny's distress and dismay, it became an established practice for Henry Crawford to walk up to the Park almost every day. He often came to dine when Mary came as well, or when she did not, he called at teatime to stay for an hour or so -- to talk to Sir Thomas, and look at Fanny. Fanny remained steadfast with all the quiet stubborn determination that she could bring to bear, that she would not enter into friendly conversations with Mr. Crawford. Why, exactly, she did not attempt to fully explain even to herself; but she would not let it be said that he visited her. To be termed even friends with Henry Crawford was disgusting to her.

In this the contrivances of every person around her worked against her. They were all determined to promote at least a friendship. She was left alone with him constantly, or nearly alone, for Edmund and Mary, heads bent together as they murmured to each other, were not much in the way of chaperones.

Even Susan had turned against her. They were sitting in the East Room one afternoon, reading together.

"Why don't you like Mr. Crawford, Fanny?" Susan asked when Fanny had reached the end of a chapter and set the book down. Despite all her recently acquired refinement, Susan could still be terribly direct.

Fanny paused, wondering how much it would be prudent and honorable to reveal. She did not question Susan's powers of observation any more.

"He's not a principled man," Fanny said at last. She had a premonition that such a statement would not satisfy her sharp sister.

Susan's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

"I saw it for myself, Susan. The way he behaved to my cousins Maria and Julia before her marriage was very -- I can only say it was very foolish and very selfish, and even more so when Maria was already engaged. It was not that anything was said outright, but I could never trust a man who flatters so insincerely, and I believe calculatingly, for his own entertainment; who has no respect or compassion."

Susan puzzled over this cryptic statement for a moment. "They both liked him?" she guessed wisely.

Fanny said nothing, because she would not discuss her cousins' behavior in detail behind their backs, but this apparently was answer enough for Susan. She fell silent again, and Fanny, chin on her hand, looked into the fire, whose heat was still welcome in the chill of early summer evenings.

"Then he did wrong, but was not cousin Maria also to blame?" was the result of Susan's meditations.

Fanny could not argue with this, without explaining more than she felt herself qualified to do.

"I think he is sorry for it now," pronounced Susan decidedly.

"He is not a serious person," said Fanny. "He treats weighty subjects lightly and laughs at grave matters -- he has no reverence for what he should."

"I like him when he laughs," retorted Susan, unreasonably. "Perhaps he is only serious in his heart. Now, don't look at me like that, Fanny. I don't mean I like him that way. I just meant he is _nice_."

Such praise could not be argued with. Fanny changed the subject.

* * *

Henry Crawford came for tea that evening, and to read their portion of Shakespeare. Fanny was angry enough at him for making her sister like him, that she refused to listen lest she unwillingly betray her appreciation of his beautiful voice, flexible tone, and precise enunciation. She bent over her needlework, thinking hard about Maria, and Julia, and now Susan; and shutting her ears to one of her favorite soliloquies.

After the reading had ended, Sir Thomas went away to his study, and Lady Bertram wandered up to her room, with Susan following to pick up her dropped handkerchiefs behind her. Edmund had bought Mary some new music, that had arrived in a parcel that afternoon, so they went to the pianoforte to try it; though Mary demurred the whole time that it would not sound as beautiful as the harp. Fanny watched them sit down together on the bench, which necessitated squeezing very close. She thought Edmund had his arm around her waist. They would be oblivious to the world for the rest of the evening, Fanny knew, and as Henry Crawford sat down in the chair next to her, she was trapped here with them.

"I am curious to know what you think of Ophelia," he began, and Fanny steeled herself. He had not tried discussing the reading with her often, but it was the opening most designed to tempt and interest her, though perhaps he did not realize it. She would never have admitted it to herself, but his way of thinking about the characters and their motivations always made her consider the familiar words in a new way. If he were not such an unpleasant -- well, immoral -- person, she would have been glad to talk with him about literature. She had never had anyone to discuss ideas with but Edmund; and he was quite occupied at the moment.

As he was waiting for a reply, it occurred to her that if he would talk, she would not have to answer. "What do you think of her, sir?" she returned.

It seemed that her clever ploy had worked; he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "Well then, Fa-Miss Price, I think a number of things about her. What exactly were her relations with Hamlet, I wonder? And shall we condemn her for making away with herself, or can she be excused because of insanity? You have more religious learning than I; is Ophelia to be pitied?"

"I am no spiritual authority, Mr. Crawford! Excuse me, but you must not ask me such questions."

"If you say so; but you must still have an opinion on Ophelia, and I want to hear it. What drove her mad? I think perhaps her mind had never had any strength. You see that in how easily she gives in to the coercing of others."

Fanny said nothing, as he had asked no direct question this time.

"She is inferior to you in that respect, I must say. You would never give in if you believed yourself in the right, would you?"

She blushed, but before she could find an appropriate reply that would keep his personal remarks at bay, he continued.

"As a person of great strength, then, what do you say to Ophelia? You think and read a great deal; you must have some idea about her."

He would persist in provoking her despite the most discouragement she could give! Fanny felt deeply annoyed, as only a reserved person can be annoyed at the careless rough jostling of the talkative.

"I wish you would not press me, Mr. Crawford. I like to hear some of the speeches read; that is all."

For his part he clearly took Fanny's reluctance for deliberate coldness, and he tried again to pierce it. "But you are a woman; perhaps you take a different view of Ophelia's character than I can. I am eager to be taught, Miss Price."

As a matter of fact Fanny did agree, mostly, but she could not help thinking Mr. Crawford a bit harsh on poor Ophelia, and overly praising to herself. She had a secret sympathy with Ophelia, but she could not talk about it to him.

Wearily she tried once more to dissuade him. "I would not venture to disagree, sir. You have studied, and I -- "

"And you have an intelligent, discerning mind, Miss Price, which you insist on keeping locked up!" he cried in frustration. "You refuse the most innocent and edifying discussion on any subject. What could be more congenial than to talk about books together? But with you, no. Heaven forbid that you should express an opinion to me!"

Fanny shrank from the passion of his outburst. She would not reply, for what could she say? If she protested, he would only take it as encouragement to press her for discussion.

"I am ready to give up," he said. Her sharp movement did not escape his notice, and he sighed. "And I know you wish me to give up. You have no mercy. If I did not know you better, I would think you an unfeeling, unthinking creature. Made of solid granite you look, sitting there."

"Perhaps you do not know me at all!" retorted Fanny, at last.

"And if I do not, it is not my fault, for you will not let me. You will not help me to understand you better in the slightest."

Fanny knew this was perfectly true, but she could not wish it otherwise, so she said nothing.

Mr. Crawford got up, crossed to the fire and then to the window. He drew back the drape a little and put his finger gently in the pattern of frost there.

"Why is it that you refuse to speak even commonplaces to me? I suspect that even if I remarked on the weather you would turn away from me. What keeps you so steadfast against me?" He paused, then burst out again, "I have spoken no word -- hinted nothing of any feeling besides friendship. My expectations have been fair. I have demanded nothing, only asked for ordinary courtesy."

Fanny sat still, her jaw clenched to keep from trembling. Her silence now arose not from anger, but something else she herself could not identify.

"Is it fear, Fanny? Do you fear me still, after all I have done to show my sincerity? You do me an injustice. Your doubts are unjustified and cruel."

He crossed the room behind her, and stopped.

"Do not be so afraid to trust me," he said, low, bending over her shoulder to speak almost in her ear. "You are constantly afraid to venture anything. You live in fear, you whose goodness and faith should give you hope and peace."

Fanny was offended, enough to reply with unaccustomed sharpness. "You speak too freely, sir. You assume too much. I have no wish to discuss my religion with you -- it is none of your business, and neither is anything I choose to do or not do. If you really cared about me as you profess to do, you would see how much you pain me with your constant pressing and teasing. I wish you would go away."

He drew back silently, and Fanny almost thought that his eyes glistened. In anyone else, she would have suspected tears. She had hurt him, and search herself as she would, she could not find the slightest regret. Let him be hurt then, Mr. Crawford of the blind confidence. He had often enough trampled over her. Fair enough that he should feel it in return.

But remorse with Fanny, as always, tackled her almost before vindictive dislike could have its moment of triumph. Even before Mr. Crawford had gone away after an uncomfortable silence, she felt the first twinges of conscience. Though she resisted with all her might, the habitual harsh honesty of her soul, combined with the uncertainty and guilt imposed by her upbringing, overcame her. The guilt attacked first with her most feared weapon: ingratitude. Only second, more subtly, slipping between her weakened defenses, came the thought, "Can he be right?"

I _am_ afraid, was the accusation of her conscience. I fear even where I should trust, I cling where I should step with confidence.

It is no sin to doubt an uncertain world, she argued.

But inexorably the reply came, It is sin when I doubt providence. It is when I doubt those who have constantly shown me devotion and love, when I am afraid to show what I think or even to be myself.

Even to Henry Crawford? Once she had most justly feared the obvious unsteadiness of his character. But after so long and determined a demonstration of his purpose in changing, at what point would her continued distrust become ungracious and unfair? Was her persistent dislike _now_ understandable, or had she sunk to mere prejudice?


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Fanny woke in an unsettled mood, after a light and restless sleep. She took very little breakfast, though she sat staring unseeing at her plate for long enough to draw a comment from Mrs. Norris, who wondered if she intended to waste the perfectly good food provided her.

Fanny had debated with herself until she no longer knew who was in the right, Mr. Crawford or herself. And now she was too weary to be angry with him. She had not the energy to sustain a quarrel, or to bear the questions and reproaches that such a quarrel would provoke in others. He had already unsettled her and disturbed her rest far too often.

At the same time she felt inconsistently that she could not bear for him to hate her. She might dislike him, but she could not be content with being disliked herself. She had already lost too much to scorn the opinion of others. And whether he knew it or not, he had touched on the truth. He had said it inconsiderately and impertinently, but it was true that she had allowed fear and despair to overcome her, too often.

Though she would not admit it, it was with the hope of meeting Mr. Crawford that she decided to take a walk after breakfast, in the direction of the Parsonage.

She walked quickly, with her head down, watching the gravel under her feet; and thus she nearly walked into the subject of her quest just outside the Parsonage garden.

"Miss Price!" he said, with a formal intonation, and without any sign of slipping to "Fanny" as he often did.

"Mr. Crawford! I was hoping to meet you. I wanted to speak to you -- " and for a moment, her desire attained, she groped wildly for what it was she had so eagerly wanted to say. Her hand, even, had moved of itself as if reaching out for something, and she found it unexpectedly enclosed in his.

"Yes?" he said, and the whole pitch of his voice had changed, as she heard without looking at him.

"I wished to say -- " Fanny stopped for a breath and to consider; but then she was hesitating in fear -- just what she had determined not to do. She began again and everything spoke itself: it seemed to be his effect on her. "I am very sorry, Mr. Crawford, for the way I spoke to you yesterday evening. Perhaps I have been unjust. I think there was truth in what you said -- I do hesitate and doubt too much. I must try to be more open, more confident; I have reasons enough, in my family, in my -- my friends, to be hopeful instead of desponding, as I know very well. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Crawford." Though she had meant to speak confidently, there was more feeling trembling in her voice than she had intended.

A long silence followed her declaration. "I can have nothing to forgive," he said at last, still in that deep tone. "I know very well that I said far too much last night myself. I was expecting to work very hard to repair the damage I had done, and instead you come to me, with all the generosity and compassion that I so lo-- that I so admire in you. I acknowledge that I did despair, last night, that you completely despised me."

"I never -- " she protested hastily, and then, compelled by her sense of integrity to be completely truthful, "I do not _now_ despise you, sir. I cannot despise your kindness to me, though I do not always understand you."

As she spoke with greater calmness than before, she realized that he still held her hand, and she could not pull it away yet. It would be too mean, after all she had said. But she was embarrassed, and she could not help an anxious glance at the Parsonage windows. He saw her look, with a quickness of comprehension she had increasingly noticed of late, and let her go. But his voice, as he spoke, made up for the missing touch with its warmth.

"Ah, you did despise me once, then. Don't look confused. I can guess what you mean, now that I am beginning to understand you better. You despised me last fall, when we had the play, I think."

She was a little shocked at his audacity in referring to it, but at the same time encouraged by this evidence of his sensibility.

"Go on, Fanny. Accuse me, reprove me, tell me the truth."

"That, sir, is not my place to do."

"But it will be better to have it said. I would rather know exactly what you think of me. You have said you will be unafraid: now do not hesitate."

"If you must know my opinion, I cannot deny that _then_ you did very wrong, Mr. Crawford. You didn't think, perhaps, how much harm you did. You were amusing yourself and you did not see how seriously your actions would be taken. But that makes it all the worse: harm was done, and you did not even stop to regard it." She spoke with her usual softness, but with more than usual vehemence. She had been troubled by this for so long, that she could not forebear speaking plainly, though she knew that by admitting any influence over his behavior, she accepted a greater intimacy with him than even the intimacy she had been resisting all along.

He looked, for once in his life, grave and almost uncomfortable, but after a moment he said quietly, "I should hear it all. What did I do, exactly? Let me have all the lecture I deserve."

She flushed hotly, and shook her head. "You... you encouraged my cousins to feel -- it may be Julia was not your fault, but you let her think things that -- and Maria was engaged! You prepared a very bad foundation for her marriage. You think Mr. Rushworth did not notice, but he did, I know."

Mr. Crawford was silent. Fanny did not dare to look up at him, but after a pause she added, "It was dishonorable, very dishonorable, but what is worst of all, I cannot think you did not know what you were doing. You may not have understood all the effects of your actions, but you should have known it was wrong, and you did it anyway, for your own pleasure."

"I was selfish," he agreed, seriously, and so low she almost stepped closer to hear him better. "And I have done many selfish acts besides, some worse than that, some that you cannot know. In fact, where I have done the most good I have often been most motivated by selfish desires."

Fanny had always struggled the most to express anything she felt very deeply: she resorted to generalities, but every word was spoken with the most intense earnestness. "It does not exactly excuse you, but -- perhaps it is human nature to be selfish, Mr. Crawford. No one can claim to be perfectly unselfish, not even when they seem to act from the purest of principles. And even -- people who appear the most virtuous often do so to please others out of a wish to be loved, instead of pleasing God because He is good."

It was a bit incoherent, but he did not look confused. His only reply was to say softly, "Let me take you in to my sister. She had been hoping to see you this morning." He offered his arm, and Fanny took it without the slightest reluctance.

When they entered the Parsonage, they found Mary sitting with her back to the window, but she gave them a sly glance. "Don't you both look friendly this morning! Arm in arm, indeed. I am ready to faint with surprise."

Fanny's serenity vanished at once. These kind of remarks had certainly the power to intimidate her, despite her resolution to be fearless. And it was just what she had most dreaded if she admitted the smallest sign of warmth to Mr. Crawford. He may not have demanded anything of her recently, but she could not forget that everyone knew he wanted to marry her. To her relief, she heard him speaking quite carelessly.

"Mary, I am desolated that you think me so devoid of common politeness. I know you would believe any ill of me, your own brother, but this is too much! To be ready to faint at my offering a lady my arm!"

"I would believe any ill of you until I see you walking in the door in perfect harmony with Fanny Price. Now I am ready to proclaim you a prince of all goodness and charm."

"You are ridiculous, Mary," he retorted. "Miss Price, if she talks nothing but nonsense, I would walk back up to the Park. It is impossible to have a rational conversation with a madwoman."

Fanny was not entirely relieved of her embarrassment, but she felt able to meet Mary's sparkling eyes, and that was something.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning of mornings, the wedding day, dawned in its proper time. Fanny was up and dressed in time to watch the sunrise from the East Room. She had made up her mind to be very sensible about the wedding, but despite herself, the prospect of attending Edmund's bride to church and listening to the vows that made them one forever, did cause a certain piercing sensation just under her ribs. She sat for some time trying to pray, but she did not know what to pray for. It would be wicked to pray that the marriage would not take place, that Mary would jilt Edmund at the alter, but Fanny could not think of any other proper petition. Should she pray that she would not faint? "Help me, help me," were the only words that at last formed themselves in her heart. And with that, she heard footsteps and noise below, and knew it was time.

The duties of a bridesmaid are irksome at the best, for she undertakes to offer her support to a woman who hardly notices her in the transports of the joyful occasion, and at the price of her own beauty: for a bridesmaid must be quiet and plain on this day if no other. To be retiring would not have troubled Fanny, but to be forced to praise and wait on the woman marrying the man one loves has a sting that would not fail to irritate the gentlest heart. It was perhaps Fanny's greatest triumph of mind and spirit that she set out for the church having honestly done her utmost to make Mary lovely and happy. There was really little to do. Despite moving flowers from one side to the other and coaxing curls to fall just so, Mary's beauty would not have altered one whit whatever Fanny did. All brides are beautiful, as everyone says, and the unmistakable joy in Mary's eyes made a charming woman absolutely breathtaking.

So, probably, did Edmund think when his waiting eyes caught the first sight of her. The return look he gave her held such intimacy of love that Fanny, standing just behind, averted her eyes. While the bride and groom no doubt heard and remembered very little of the ceremony, Fanny felt as if each word burnt through her heart.

* * *

Henry Crawford, sitting at the very front of the church, had positioned himself to watch his sister, but also to be able to observe Fanny -- since no opportunity to do so with impunity should be passed by. From his seat he saw it all: the adoration in Edmund's gaze, Mary's smile from under her bonnet, and half-hidden behind, Fanny shrinking away, wincing as if from a rough touch on a sore spot. The pain showed in her face for only a moment, and it could have been anything, envy of being married, melancholy at losing her cousin and her friend, even an upset stomach. But in the flash of comprehension that came to him, he knew it was none of those things.

Fanny Price loved her cousin Edmund, had loved him for some time. He saw it and knew at once it was true. It fit many things that he had wondered over. The pensive droop that came over her in unguarded moments, and the sadness that gripped her so stubbornly, had a meaning and a reason now that seemed so obvious he wondered at his own blindness. No wonder it seemed impossible to make her happy, as he had once blithely hoped to do.

It should have been a moment of despair to Henry Crawford, but being a man of confidence and a sanguine temper, he found relief in it too. "So this is the secret of her indifference," he thought and found the idea strangely comforting. It was an obstacle he understood; it gave a comprehensible reason for her past behavior to him. He watched Fanny again, and now that he knew, he saw it in everything, in her posture, in her look, in the expression of deep grief that sat in the delicate lines of her mouth. And, selfish hopes for the moment forgotten, he was struck with the tragedy of it; she should be happy, content, loved. He would have liked to hit Edmund. How could he have hurt Fanny so? What an idiot -- he must never have noticed the love right in front of him.

Everyone left the church all in one rush, crowding round the bridal couple. It should have been Fanny's duty as bridesmaid to stay close and throw flowers before them, but she had somehow been pushed to the back as embraces were given and hands shaken. Henry's eyes were all for her, and he drew back to find her, drawing her hand into his arm. "My dear friend Fanny! Here you are. What a crush! You wouldn't think it, for there are not so many of us, and yet it feels as if it were a hundred." He saw that her lips trembled and her eyelids winked fiercely several times, and guessed that she was in a mood to be overcome by the simplest kindness; if he kept speaking she would be quite overset.

Mrs. Norris's voice could be heard arching over the happy noise of greetings and congratulations. "Fanny! Where are you? Don't lag behind, it is not the moment for self-indulgence." Mrs. Norris had bitterly resented Fanny's being asked to be a bridesmaid. Where she did not see fit to put Fanny, any honor given could only be most improper. She thought that Julia, at the very least, should be asked before Fanny. Julia was Edmund's own sister, after all, and what was Fanny? But one could not argue with a bride. At the very least, however, Fanny ought to value the honor which she had so unjustly usurped. "Come here at once!" she commanded. "Miss Crawford -- that is, Mrs. Bertram wishes you to hold her flowers."

Henry sensed his companion stiffen at his side, and felt at once more and more angry. "There is no need to be so importunate, Mrs. Norris," he said sharply, turning so Fanny was shielded on the side farthest from her aunt. "It is I who detained Fanny."

"No blame to you, sir, I am sure, but Fanny has duties and must not forget herself no matter how pleasant the company."

"I am here now, Aunt Norris," whispered Fanny.

Henry opened his mouth for a probably ill-considered reply, but fortunately he was interrupted before Fanny could be more embarrassed and Mrs. Norris disillusioned in her good opinion of him.

"Come all, to the Parsonage," put in Mrs. Grant, anxiously. "There is a stiff breeze in the open here."

* * *

Fanny had to sit next to Mary at the wedding breakfast, a torture so acute to her feelings that she did not even notice Mr. Crawford watching her. She could see Mary and Edmund holding hands under the table -- and they did not seem to care if she saw. She wondered suddenly what it felt like, to love and be loved in return. She had spent half her life loving someone, but she suddenly doubted she knew what love was like after all. If she had poured the entire contents of her heart out at Edmund's feet, and it went trickling neglected over the ground like water -- then what could fill her up again? Religion perhaps. And though faith in God had sustained Fanny for many years, through many despairs, she now wondered if it would be enough, and then did not dare to wonder. Everyone has moments of doubt, and Fanny had at last reached hers. A blackness dropped over her.

The bridal couple departed, and the usual slightly irritable reaction of everyone else followed as proper. Fanny was too exhausted with thinking and unhappiness to object to Mr. Crawford's escorting her back to the park. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram had come in the carriage, and she was offered a seat, but declined decidedly. A walk, a walk in solitude, would balm her torn and ragged spirit. It looked cloudy and the wind was formidable, but Fanny insisted, for once, on her way. It was not until she had left the Parsonage garden that she heard steps behind her. She had guessed at once who it was: not a difficult guess, for who else would follow her? Mrs. Norris had taken Fanny's place in the carriage.

She did not want Henry Crawford's sympathy and kindness, either, but the exertion of denial was absolutely too much for her. She took his arm without a word, trying desperately not to dwell on the memory of walking down this very lane with Edmund scarcely a week ago.

"The wedding day is terribly depressing to everyone after the bride and bridegroom have gone away," he said, gently.

Fanny hated her ready tears. "Please -- " she began, but her voice would not carry her any further.

"Don't be troubled," he rejoined hastily. "I'll babble on harmlessly or keep silent, just as you wish."

They walked on. Mr. Crawford opened his mouth to speak three or four times. Never in his life had he had such a struggle for self-restraint. He longed to speak to her, but respect for her, and a kind of awe of her hidden grief, prevented him. It was a new course of action, and the prolonged silence gave him leisure to think. He thought of how long she must have struggled with hope and despair, without betraying anything to anyone around her. He condemned her family at first for neglecting her, but he realized that he ought to be condemned at least equally. A chance look had revealed her secret to him, but if not for that he would have remained as ignorant as everyone else. How could he have been so stupid, he who claimed to live on her very glance?

The hopeful confidence that had relieved him at first, gave way to sudden fears: having loved in concealment so long, would she continue to do so forever? He thought it like her to doom herself to eternal spinsterhood, a life of helpful and unacknowledged servitude at Mansfield. "Or if she marries," he thought, "she'll marry someone who needs her and makes her feel useful." He imagined her finding some middle-aged clergyman she could nurse, instead of love.

And worst of all was this enforced silence. This revelation was not something he could laugh about with his sister. In sharing Fanny's secret only by accident, was he not honor-bound to keep it with her? And who could he confide in? Not Mary -- how could he tell her that her friend Fanny was in love with her husband? It was ridiculous even to contemplate.

They reached the Park, and Fanny turned slightly to him. "Thank you for your company, Mr. Crawford."

She would not look up. "Remember we are friends now," he returned as warmly as he dared. "I shall come in, or go, just as you order. No doubt it will be a long afternoon, with numerous repetitions of the same hackneyed sentiments. How sorry we are to see them go, and what a comfort it is to hope for their eternal happiness." He had mimicked Mrs. Norris's voice, and thought, peering sideways to catch a glimpse of Fanny's chin and mouth under her bonnet, that he had conjured a very faint upward curl of the lips. "Would you like to read, or discuss politics, write charades, talk about the weather -- anything to occupy your thoughts? I promise to be of your mind in everything -- only for today, of course."

"You are very kind, Mr. Crawford," she murmured, seeming to struggle. Then she sighed and gave in. "Please do come in."

They went in together, and as they entered the drawing room Mrs. Norris's voice reached them.

"Of course we are sorry to see them go, sister, but their happiness must be such a comfort to you."

Fanny actually looked up for the first time since leaving the Parsonage, and on his catching her eye she really smiled this time. "Your reputation as a prophet is made, sir. I shall consult you on the weather for tomorrow."

More likely, my reputation as a miracle-worker, thought he in astonishment. Did Fanny Price just smile at me?


	9. Chapter 9

Fanny thought about Edmund and Mary less than she expected, while they were away on their wedding trip. She was distracted by other ideas, for which she acknowledged with reluctant gratitude, Henry Crawford was responsible. His ability to engage her was remarkable even to herself, for she could not at once converse with him as she had been used to converse with Edmund, nor could she open her feelings to him, as she had not been used to do with anyone. She feared that his gentle courtesy would be temporary, that it was put on for some hidden purpose of his own, very likely to lull her into dropping her guard so that he could slip in underneath her shields and stab her to the heart. With such suspicions lurking on one side, and such varied passion and depression on the other, it is a wonder that they got on at all.

This was entirely due to Henry Crawford's stubborn persistence in an entirely new plan that he had laid out for himself. Fanny's suspicions were correct in that he was not without personal motives -- no one so sincerely in love could be entirely disinterested. But for the first time, he had relinquished the unquestioned confidence that he could take her heart from her as easily as picking a wildflower. He had made himself a strict rule that he would not dwell on his eventual hopes; he hardly even thought of them. The result of his not sleeping the night after the wedding, was a fixed determination, not to make Fanny like him, but to be a true friend to her.

Even at his most amoral, Henry was not a stupid man: he realized that the likelihood of his ever winning Fanny always had been, and ever would be, extremely slight. With any other woman he would have seized the opportunity to become the comforter of her broken heart and felt confident of succeeding with merely a slight alteration in his scheme of attack. But though Fanny's modesty and virtue had once been a challenge for him to conquer; his hopes had for some time been of a somewhat different kind. He had planned to marry her and have her for always; now he unwillingly admitted that in spite of the progress he had made so far, it was very improbable that Fanny should stoop to consider a man like him after Edmund Bertram. She would want another Edmund instead: a man of serious character and gentle goodness, not a Henry Crawford, be he ever so charming.

It was a surprising admission for a man like Mr. Crawford. He first thought that the most sensible thing to do would be to give her up and go away, and astonished himself even more by finding that he was unwilling to contemplate the idea. No, he could not give her up, not just yet. Whether it was love, or pride, or a combination of the two, he did not stop to determine; but if anything she had become even more irresistible to him than before. But he could not remain in the position of suitor. Continual rejection he could not bear, even to be near her. The only way to remain in her company, and perhaps earn a place in her good graces, must be to become her friend. He must study the art of friendship as avidly as he had once studied the art of making love to pretty girls. Even that would be a challenge unlike any he had ever faced, but for one reason or another he refused to give up entirely.

This was the path, and he set out unhesitatingly, once having decided. And this was the secret of the unfailing patience that so bewildered Fanny. No matter how short and chilly her answers, he came back unflaggingly.

They began by talking of Shakespeare. After reading to them all, he would draw up his chair close to Fanny's so they could talk quietly, so Fanny would not be embarrassed by the notice of the whole room. Even then, she would speak very little at first, just a few conventional replies. His ideas astonished her sometimes; his interpretations of the text were imaginative. Or perhaps he only put forth opinions not his own in order to provoke her disagreement.

"Do not you think that Ophelia has a guilty conscience?" he wondered, the evening after they had read the mad scene. "I think she must be hiding something, or what could drive her mad with such speed?"

Fanny could not forget that they had discussed Ophelia once before -- at least, he had tried to discuss her. It was not very comfortable topic, for more than one reason. She tried to be cool and unemotional in her reply. "What could she have done, Mr. Crawford? I do not think there is anything in the play to warrant such a harsh opinion of the poor lady."

"No, perhaps not in the strictest interpretation, but just imagine, Fanny, she cannot be a completely guiltless and pious person, or she would have dealt with her grief in a guiltless and pious way."

Fanny was struck, but she would not give in so easily. "She is overcome by so many blows at once, and with no one to support her."

"But you must know -- " and he broke off, with an odd expression on his face. " _You_ have no one to support you, and you are continually calm and in command of yourself."

"I have not endured such grief as Ophelia," Fanny said, blushing both for his personal praise and because what she said was not quite true. She too had lost her love and broken her heart, like Ophelia. She hastened to add, "besides, I have many people to support me; my sister for instance, or my uncle."

"Perhaps it was an ill-considered comparison. But nevertheless, there are many people who endure heartbreak and live on to regain a new happiness," he argued, echoing her thoughts in a way not quite comfortable. It was becoming necessary to turn the conversation. Fanny bethought herself to ask:

"But sir, you have not said what crime you suspect her of."

He paused. "I hesitate to say, for I would not shock you."

"I can bear it, though she is my favorite character," returned Fanny, smiling.

"Well -- suppose she has compromised her virtue."

"Mr. Crawford!"

"I knew I should not have said anything. Now you are offended; but Shakespeare writes of many such unpleasant realities, you know."

She sat with her brows contracted for some time. The conversation, perhaps, was best ended, and yet she had thought of an implication that interested and compelled. Despite her better judgment, she found herself speaking.

"If your theory were true, Hamlet could not be honorable. Who else could take the blame? -- and he must be blackhearted indeed to trifle with her innocence. To make her love him, and then turn her away -- I think nothing so wicked as a man who knows a woman loves him, and who will lead her on in full knowledge that he is doing wrong by encouraging her."

His head turned toward her, eyebrows lifting. "Miss Price!"

She went white. "Oh, Mr. Crawford. Now it is I who must beg your pardon. I never meant to imply anything beyond the play itself."

"Dear Fanny, I'm only teasing you," he smiled, and it struck him what she meant. She, of all people, to apologize for his past misdeeds. He looked away from her before she should see his face.

Lady Bertram called to Fanny, leaving him sitting there alone. Good God! To have her make a comparison, even unintentionally, between his own behavior to the Bertram sisters and the destructive influence of the indecisive and vindictive Hamlet. It was bad enough that she had thought of it, but worse, the idea had perfect justice. In the image of the drowned Ophelia, he thought he glimpsed, for a brief moment, why Fanny Price had hated him so much. The helpless position of a woman, the secrecy of her heartbreak, his own flirtations, danced before him. He did not even notice that Fanny had returned to her seat until she spoke, leaning towards him, with more tender feeling in her voice than he had ever heard directed toward himself.

"You are upset, Mr. Crawford. I was thoughtless -- I should have let -- You must believe that I was not thinking, in the interest of discussion -- " The confidence and self-respect that had grown in her in the past few weeks had begun to slip away before his eyes. He interrupted quickly, desperately.

"Never, my -- dear friend. I am only ashamed that you should feel any necessity to offer me an apology. I too, had forgotten everything else in my interest in the discussion. I thought only of Hamlet, and I must confess I did not at first understand you. If only my actions could bear a comparison to Hamlet! I have longed to _play_ the Noble Dane, and yet I've never thought to compare myself in reality. I have not his capacity for self-criticism, Fanny."

He looked up after a moment, almost afraid to meet her eyes, and saw with shock that she had tears in them. "Mr. Crawford, you differ from Hamlet in other ways. You have compassion and a kind heart, and I hope that your fate will bear no resemblance to his either."

Silently he offered his hand, and she took it, for the first time, without reluctance or hesitation. For a moment the contact remained unbroken; it seemed almost to startle them both. Then Fanny drew her hand away, not without a shy smile to soften the action.

Neither of them spoke of this conversation again, and in fact they both had become so afraid of talking about Ophelia that they had lengthy conversations about Polonius rather than refer to her in the slightest. And when Polonius was done with, there was always the weather. No, the topic of Ophelia was permanently proscribed.

But both felt the effects of that exceedingly uncomfortable interlude, which drew them closer despite its momentary pain. Mr. Crawford had learned to feel shame for the first time in his life, and Fanny thought of him with a great deal more compassion than before, for no better reason than that she had deservedly wounded him.


	10. Chapter 10

One very warm evening after the first really hot day of summer, Sir Thomas had engaged Mr. Crawford's attention in a discussion about something. Fanny did not pay attention, but she thought they were arguing some Parliamentary matter. She herself had escaped to the open window looking out over the terrace at the side of the house. The darkness beyond the reach of the lamplight, the soft warm air on her face, and most of all the moment of solitude, filled her with a contentment she had not felt for some time. She could not be sorry to lose Mr. Crawford's conversation for one night; though he absorbed her attention in a not unpleasant way, she had yet to feel truly comfortable in his company. Each day that passed without the slightest sign of an attempt at flirtation or gallantry, eased her fears a little. But Fanny had yet to reach the point of really trusting him. She could not believe this peace would last.

While she stood at the window, leaning her head and arm against the casing, she heard a footstep and movement behind her, and started up hastily. She was not ready for Mr. Crawford just at the moment. But it was not he -- it was Susan, who had left her aunts entertaining each other and snatched her own brief escape.

Fanny gave her a welcoming smile, not unwilling to share her quiet corner with Susan, and happy that she had sought her company.

"What are you doing here in the dark, Fanny? You are not brooding, are you?"

"Oh no! You must not suspect me of any such thing," said Fanny, blushing a little. "I was occupied much more pleasantly and innocently -- I was looking at the stars."

Susan cupped her hands to her face and leaned out a little to see better. "How lovely, Fanny. I never saw so many, and so bright. You know how it is at home. Too many buildings, and one cannot be out much after dark."

"I know -- I missed them. I used to go star-gazing with -- with my cousins." An idea struck her. "Susan, let us go out now! It has been such a long while since I have done it."

Susan agreed at once, and with a delighted conspiratorial smile she ran to fetch both their shawls from upstairs. Fanny met her at the door. They ran laughing down the steps and out onto the lawn.

"Fanny, how beautiful it is!" cried Susan, twirling. "I feel as if I would never get sleepy tonight."

"Now, Susan, I will show you how we used to find the constellations. You see that rectangular shape of four very large stars, just there?" Fanny pointed. "And those three behind it like a tail? That is the Bear, Ursa Major it is called."

Heads bent together, they circled the lawn, Fanny naming for her all the stars she knew.

"It is not the season to see Orion," she said, regretfully. "He is my favorite. But he is a winter hunter."

There was a step on the gravel behind them, and this time it _was_ Mr. Crawford.

"I have found you after all, no matter how cleverly you thought to disappear," he said triumphantly. "What dark conspiracies are you concocting there with your sister, Miss Susan?"

"No conspiracy -- we are only star-gazing," said Susan. "Fanny is teaching me."

Fanny wished her sister might have answered with a little less warmth, as Mr. Crawford turned his head toward her. It was too dark to see his face, but she was imagining an expression that would have made her uncomfortable if she could have seen it.

"And what have you learned?" was all he said.

"There's Cassiopeia," said Susan, proud to show off her knowledge. "That's the one that looks a bit like a 'W', all very bright stars."

He looked up too. "Yes, as clear as can be tonight. What else?"

But before she could answer, they heard a call from the house. "Oh, my aunt is wanting me -- excuse me, sir; Fanny will show you," said Susan, running up the steps.

Fanny began to follow her at once. Star-gazing might be harmless enough, but she would not for anything have lingered there in the soft starlight with Mr. Crawford.

"I did not know you were such a great astronomer, Fanny," he said behind her, as if to delay or prevent her going in.

"Please do not flatter me, sir," she returned, hastily, and anxious to avoid being caught in a dangerous conversation. "It was Edmund who taught me all I know."

As she spoke, she regretted her words, fearing they would provoke him to -- she knew not what. But uncharacteristically, he remained silent.

"Goodnight, Mr. Crawford," she said, and went into the house.

* * *

Edmund -- Edmund -- always Edmund! Henry Crawford kicked at a stone as he walked back to the Parsonage. But kicking was childish, and did not relieve his mood in the slightest. He knew he should be more patient; it had only been a few weeks that he had been pursuing his new plan of friendship with Fanny, and he had made progress. In justice, he knew he _had_ made progress. Yet she was still thinking of Edmund. He lurked always at the back of everything she did. And what did it profit Henry Crawford to be less hated by her, when her heart still remained firmly in Edmund's unwitting possession?

He wondered that her strict moral principles would allow her to be yearning after a married man. No -- he had no right to be criticizing her behavior. Not when she suffered so much -- he knew, now, how much. No doubt she tried not to think of Edmund, for all the good it did. Just as he tried not to think of her -- and he had never imagined what a hold she would have over him. No woman he had ever known had absorbed him like this, for so long. He might have laughed at the irony that he should be taken in, as Mary had once teasingly prophesied for him. But it was no longer humorous to him.

And Edmund and Mary would be coming back within the week. The family at Mansfield did not expect to see them at once, of course; they would go to Thornton Lacey first. But as early as the next week they might reasonably be expected to appear for the first time in all their married splendor.

Mr. Crawford suddenly did not think he could bear watching Fanny watch Edmund. He could imagine the look on her face: a gentle smile almost -- not quite but almost -- obscuring her pain. He had seen it often enough, after all.

He should leave, give up, abandon his irrational and stupid hopes. But where could he go? He was not fit for society, and London held no appeal for him now. He was a lost man.

* * *

He had meant to stay away from the Park the next day, but after dinner he found himself walking that way as if by habit. Mrs. Grant had asked him to take a message to Lady Bertram, and stupidly he had no excuse ready. And there was really no other employment that might have distracted him from thinking about Fanny -- and Edmund.

The family were sitting, as they always did, in the drawing room. Sir Thomas reading a paper, Susan sitting by Lady Bertram, and Fanny a little apart, having taken her work to the window to make use of the evening light before they lit the lamps.

After greeting them all, and delivering his sister's message, he drew a chair up to Fanny's; this too, almost by habit. He could not seem to stay away from her.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Crawford," she said in those clear, gentle tones of hers. "I had almost given you up, and I hoped we could choose a new book to read."

"I would not disappoint you for the world, Miss Price," he replied with an effort at his usual manner, "but I must beg to be excused from reading tonight. I am tired, and fear I could not do justice to beginning a new book. The beginning, you know, should be read with great energy, for that is what catches everybody's interest."

"Oh, no, if you do not like to read, of course we shall wait for another time. Perhaps we have been too selfish, demanding that you entertain us all every day. That is not fair at all."

"Besides, I am afraid it would be a greater disappointment to start a new play and then leave you in suspense for a week. I must go away for a few days -- I am leaving tomorrow -- my attention is requested, quite demanded in fact, at Everingham." He had been thinking of this all day, and now felt it to be absolutely necessary to go. It would do him good, perhaps, and he would not have to be present for Edmund and Mary's return.

"Oh!" said Fanny, and he looked up to see how she took it. If she looked sorry -- but no, her face was blank. It might be a good sign that she did not look happy or relieved at his news, but it mattered little. He ought to give up looking for good signs.

She paused, and then added, "I am glad that you take such good care of your affairs, but we shall miss you, of course."

"Will you?" he could help asking.

"Yes -- your sister will be very sorry to find you gone when she returns."

He turned his head away. It was useless to ask if she herself would miss him -- she probably welcomed his absence.

There was a silence of some minutes. Mr. Crawford had not even realized that he was sitting with his head in his hands, until his thoughts were interrupted by Fanny's voice. She was leaning toward him, frowning a little.

"Mr. Crawford! Are you quite well? Sir, you do not look at all yourself."

He jumped up, walked to the window, and came back. "I must get away," he burst out almost in a whisper. "I cannot bear this."

Fanny looked, as he saw from the corner of his eyes, nearly ready to cry. He pulled himself under control with a wrench. "Miss Price, forgive me. I make a very poor companion tonight. I must apologize for burdening you with my bad temper -- perhaps it would be better if I take myself off at once."

"I have not -- not offended you somehow, have I?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"No, no, Fanny, do not be distressed. Do not cry, dearest --" He had clasped her hand before he knew what he was doing -- dropped it quickly. They had attracted the notice of Sir Thomas from across the room, and Henry knew he would not be answerable for his actions if he stayed longer. He went, with a quick word to Lady Bertram and Sir Thomas.


	11. Chapter 11

Fanny felt that somehow, she had done or said something amiss, and a miserable discontented feeling troubled her all the next day. She felt a vague wish to see Mr. Crawford once before he went, but she could not make up her mind to seek him out -- that would appear so particular. She sat silently hemming handkerchiefs and hoping that her inward squirming would not appear on her exterior.

Fortunately there was no one to notice, but Susan, who was helping Lady Bertram address letters. "Are you feeling unwell, Fanny?" said she, turning over her shoulder from the desk by Lady Bertram's sofa.

"Do you think this pen is sharp enough, Susan?" put in Lady Bertram, before Fanny could answer, having arrived at a resolution to speak after an exhaustive consideration of her pen point. "Dear me," she continued. "How it looks as if it might rain. Fanny, my dear, do you not think it looks as if it might rain? My sister will be so wet if she walks up now."

"Perhaps she will notice the clouds herself," suggested Susan patiently, with the slow even voice that Lady Bertram liked to hear.

"Oh I hope she will notice them. It does look as if it will be very wet at any moment. Do you see my pen, Susan? It is rather dull, is it not?"

Nevertheless, by teatime the day had brightened a little, as Lady Bertram observed complacently. "She had said it would not be wet long. Indeed, how very wise of her sister Norris to wait for her visit."

It was not too many minutes before Mrs. Norris appeared, in fact, equally impressed with her own sense in staying dry and managing to time her visit so as to be sure of being offered tea as well.

When Mrs. Norris had well settled in, Fanny gathered all of her nerve together.

"Aunt Norris? Did not you say that you had an errand for me at the Parsonage? I thought Mrs. Grant had offered to give us some berries, the ones from those canes you planted." It had only been a slight mention of the berries several days before, but Mrs. Norris did not often forget even slight mentions.

"I don't recall any such thing," was the reply. "Why must you be so restless, Fanny? There is plenty of work for you here, if you will once apply your concentration and your needle. I do not understand why young people are so fidgety; why when I was a girl I spent hours together at my samplers."

"I am sorry," said Fanny meekly, ashamed of herself. It served her right for attempting to be -- not deceitful exactly, but contriving. "I am sure you are right, Aunt."

Mrs. Norris looked at her sharply. "I don't want any laziness, Fanny Price. You have been indulging yourself all day; if you will work with energy you will not feel so languid. I never allow myself to feel tired."

"Yes, ma'am," said her niece miserably, feeling that she had only made things worse. How did Mr. Crawford always manage to get his way so smoothly? Apparently she lacked the art of it.

A silence of some minutes passed. "To be sure, it is very decent of Mrs. Grant to remember those canes were mine. I had not thought it would occur to her to offer me any," mused Mrs. Norris, quite mollified by the idea of her rightful ownership of the fruit being acknowledged by her successor.

"They must be quite early this year," said Fanny eagerly.

"They always were," said Mrs. Norris. "If you do not dawdle, Fanny, you might go and bring us some in time for tea."

Fanny hid her relief by bending her head to fold up her work.

She walked quickly to the parsonage, trying to ignore the jumping feeling in her stomach; and entered with all her nerves vibrating tensely. But there was no soothing balm for her anxiety yet. Mrs. Grant was at home, but her brother was nowhere to be seen, and Fanny dared not ask after him, even casually. She prolonged the conversation as long as possible, even framed her question in her thoughts, but she could not make herself ask it. She trudged back home despising herself, and feeling utterly wretched; and no appetite did she have even for early berries.

Apparently Mr. Crawford had really gone. This was confirmed by Sir Thomas, with great satisfaction. "A man who sees to his own property -- now there is a man to be admired. He sent me a note, very respectfully, too."

"Did he say when he will return, uncle?" inquired Susan, with just the right mixture of warmth and disinterested curiosity that Fanny felt to be totally beyond her reach. "Surely he would like to see his sister when she arrives!"

Sir Thomas looked at her approvingly. "Not everyone has your family feeling, niece. It seems that he has had news from his steward that demanded his attention. Since I cannot tell what the matter is, I cannot guess how long it will detain him. But it is always better to see these things through, even if inconvenient at the time. It will do any young man good to spend some time on his estate. He should settle down soon, before it becomes entirely unmanageable."

This last was directed at Fanny, and might have caused her much pain, but that she did not hear it.

* * *

Fanny could not help but suspect the reason for Mr. Crawford's quick departure; and though she accused herself of vanity, she felt fairly certain she was right. He still loved her, it must be. She had supposed that he had more or less given her up, and had been pleased; but she was surprisingly untroubled to discover that it was not so. Flirtatious he had often been, ingratiating, even seductive, but not overmastered by his feelings. He treated everything with such levity, she could not help but feel pleased to find him so serious about anything; although of course she would rather not have been the subject of his interest. But what really made her unhappy was the thought that she had driven him away. She could never regret refusing him, but she had come to think he was not entirely wicked; and she must pity him. She knew better than anyone how painful such disappointment might be.

And she had just been beginning to really enjoy his company, as a friend. She found herself hoping that he would come back. Surely he must come back eventually, now that his sister lived in the neighborhood.

On reflection, Fanny decided this was selfish and sinful. She was actually contemplating encouraging false hopes in him, merely for the pleasure of his company! It was bad, and even long inner argument did not convince her to relent in her self-condemnation. Yet the idea of banishing him forever still grieved her. She would not think about it. It might be hypocrisy, but losing one's only friend is a prospect not to be contemplated with equanimity by the most hard-hearted.

A thought even more reprehensible entered her mind. What if she were to accept him? For the first time Fanny allowed herself to imagine life as Henry Crawford's wife. But only for a moment -- no, it would not do. She marry him, after all her protestations? And to be unfaithful to -- The thought of Edmund had entered so stealthily that she did not at first realize what she was thinking about. Resolutely she set her heart against his idea. There could be no question of unfaithfulness to Edmund's memory; she must think of him only as a dear cousin and nothing more. Still, whether or not she named Edmund as the source of her reluctance, the idea of accepting Henry Crawford could not be entertained. She did not love him: that was enough.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Bertram drove over from Thornton Lacey on Tuesday just as expected, to dine with the family at the Park, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant, who were asked to join them. They meant to stay several days and then return in time for Edmund to hold services on Sunday.

Mary flew to greet and embrace Fanny, and as always Fanny found herself feeling put off and provoked. She ought in her loneliness to have been grateful for the affection in which Mary was always so unstinting. But Fanny had ever found it very difficult to understand Mary. She was ostentatious, yet sincere, over-demonstrative yet genuine. The fact of the matter was that she rubbed Fanny the wrong way, and being newly married to Fanny's beloved cousin did not help smooth her offenses.

"Fanny! How much I have to tell you! You must walk with me tomorrow, for very likely we shall be occupied all the evening," she said, drawing Fanny's arm through hers.

"Oh yes, I always like to walk," said Fanny with literal truth, unwilling as she might be to spend all morning with a Mary in high spirits. "Did you like Brighton?"

"The sea is beautiful, and bathing like nothing else, but I must save all that for tomorrow or I will forget to tell you all the important details. There is nothing so provoking as telling a tale all out of its proper order, just when one has settled with oneself exactly how to recount it so as to produce a great sensation."

Fanny smiled, but before she could speak, Mrs. Norris called for her.

"Fanny! Do not monopolize Mrs. Bertram. I'm sure she is very kind in singling you out but you must not think to put yourself forward so much when she has only just arrived."

Mrs. Norris would have been even more offensive had it been Maria returning for a visit, for Edmund was not her favorite. Nevertheless, at moments of celebration for any young Bertram, Mrs. Norris felt it incumbent upon her to ensure that any Prices in the vicinity did not rise above their station.

"Come with me, Fanny," said she. "Someone must oversee the laying of the silver, for your sister Susan is busy with Lady Bertram, and you are not needed here."

"Fanny will do no such thing!" protested Mary hotly, and not without justice. "You forget, ma'am, that she is now my cousin, and I will talk to her if I like!"

Mrs. Norris drew back, astonished, but before she could speak, Fanny jerked away from them both. She took a long breath, her heart full and overflowing. "Mary, you are very kind, but it is no matter -- we will walk tomorrow. Aunt Norris, you know very well no one needs me to look over the silver. Excuse me, but I have a headache just now." She walked away quickly, eyes filling with guilt and emotional reaction together. Never had she refused anyone's claim on her before. Mary meant to defend her, but she had provoked a scene and at the moment Fanny almost hated her. Henry would have managed to occupy her time so easily that Fanny would not be made uncomfortable, nor Mrs. Norris excited. How she missed him!


	12. Chapter 12

Fanny was not the only one who noticed Mr. Crawford's absence. His sister lamented him at least thirty times the next morning before dinner. Her whole family would be gathered, she said, except this beloved brother who had been so inconsiderate as to be gone at an important moment. "Her affection is real," Fanny thought, "and she does not realize she is selfish."

Fanny had little charity for anyone, at the moment. Mary was still in high spirits and half their walk had been spent in angry denunciation of Mrs. Norris, on one side, and attempts to placate and soothe on the other, until Mary recovered her good temper; and having laughed scornfully at Mrs. Norris's new dress, felt equal to telling Fanny all about Brighton. But Mrs. Norris was not so quick to forgive; and the dinner conversation that day was carried mostly by Edmund and Sir Thomas.

Fanny feared a miserable week if Mary's winks and nods, and Mrs. Norris's glares, were any indication. Susan shot her a sympathizing glance every now and then, but Lady Bertram had a steady flow of quiet remarks about the potatoes and the weather, that kept Susan quite busy with a variety of gentle assents and left her little time to attend to her sister.

The ladies rose at last, and Fanny followed Mrs. Norris to the drawing room. Mary's high spirits had risen to a fever: she only longed for someone to exchange wit with, and no one could be found. Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris did not understand wit; Sir Thomas and Edmund ignored it; and Fanny, if she understood it, could not enter into the spirit of it. Susan at last rose to the challenge. She had not the worldly experience to match Mary's allusions, but she could laugh, and ask questions, which satisfied Mary for the moment.

"Is not the bathing-dress very cumbersome?" she wondered, at Mary's laughing description of the bathing machines.

"Oh, entirely too cumbersome for some, but not nearly enough for certain others," said Mary with a sly emphasis. "It is a bit odd-looking at first, indeed, but everyone wears it, so oddity becomes simple custom. I do not acknowledge anything strange about it, now. No, as an experienced sea-bather, I am compelled to look down on those who question it, and say many wise and scientific things about the coldness of the water, and the safety of the bathers, and so on."

"Oh dear, then I must not ask any more questions."

"Ah, but this is a family-party, so I will forgive you this once. You might as well take the opportunity to learn all about it, that when you go to Brighton yourself you may look as wise as the next lady."

"I am not likely to go to Brighton," said Susan.

"You never know," said Mary mysteriously. "Your family influence is growing, you know."

"Do not be encouraging any inappropriate fantasies in the girl," Mrs. Norris said. "You may have a kind heart, Mrs. Bertram, but you forget that it is in the end much more sensible and compassionate not to give anyone hopes that are never to be fulfilled."

"A very quiet and no doubt very useful life you plan for your nieces, _Aunt_ Norris," retorted Mary, speaking with a sharp gaiety. "Well, you have gained much wisdom with your years, but I am still young and silly."

Fanny winced at her tone of voice, and drew her chair further back. The dim glow of a lamp over her embroidery gave her an excuse, and threw her face in shadow at the same time. She nestled into the darkness as into a warm bed on a cold night. In it she seemed separated from the unpleasant and awkward silence that had fallen on the other side of the room.

Before the silence had grown too formidable there came a welcome interruption. They heard footsteps, voices.

"How very quick Sir Thomas is this evening, to be sure," observed Lady Bertram in a voice the very opposite of quick. The door opened, and in walked, not Sir Thomas and Edmund, but Henry Crawford, looking blown and a bit dirty. Fanny dropped her needle onto her screen.

"Lady Bertram, please forgive me for intruding, all in my dirt as I am," he said in his usual energetic way, and bowing to the company. "It's very rude of me to arrive so abruptly, but I am trusting your family feeling will supply understanding and mercy; I could not rest without seeing Mary. I knew you would expect me, sister dear." This last as he kissed her hand gently. "I will not embrace you, Mary, and get your finery mussed."

"You had better not try, indeed. I have been very angry with you, Henry, and I am not sure yet if you are to be forgiven."

"Not impressed with my dramatic appearance, Mary? And I had planned it so carefully!"

"Oh, most ingenious, but you know my feelings are all domestic now. I favor quiet harmony over touching drama."

"Do you? Then I will not say that I arose before dawn merely for the purpose of arriving here in time for tea. You would abhor such a display."

"Yes, I would. Mrs. Norris agrees with me, I'm sure," said Mary.

At this point Lady Bertram put in her answer to his earlier speech, paying no attention whatever to their teasing. "Of course you are very welcome, Mr. Crawford, but I am afraid you will be very tired after such a long ride."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Norris, who probably felt that the conversation was becoming unruly. "I wonder at your being in such a hurry, Mr. Crawford! To ride all that way and back only for a few days! One might well envy such energy!" She narrowed her eyes at Fanny, as if to attribute all the world's follies to her account. No doubt Fanny slyly encouraged such demonstrations. If only it were easier to catch her at it.

After the first moment, Fanny had bent her eyes to her embroidery frame. She was too overwhelmed with a variety of feelings to really work, but she bowed herself over her floss studiously, quite unconsciously throwing a gleam of light across her neat head. It would be both proper and right to greet him as a friend, but she was quite paralyzed. She dreaded the moment of meeting his eyes, but not with the same dread that she had used to feel at his presence. For a moment she was angry at him; could he never be satisfied without disturbing her peace? Just when she had begun to feel comfortable again, he upset her whole system.

Then she was sorry for feeling angry. It was not his fault that she was foolish, and weak, and persisted in feeling more than she should for Edmund. He had not wronged her -- whatever his other faults, he had never deceived her about his motives. It was she who kept her feelings secret.

But while she was thinking, she had not moved or even lifted her head. It was he who came to her, after everyone else had their share in the welcome.

"Miss Price? Will you not shake hands with me, at least?" Blessed to Fanny's raw heart was his low voice, too low to be overheard by Mrs. Norris, who had moved a little nearer, suspiciously. And the warmth in it too -- it was more than she expected, perhaps more than she deserved when she had not even had the courage to offer him a simple greeting. She gave him one quick glance upward, and held out her hand, looking down again. He pressed it so hard he almost hurt her, but let go swiftly. Without looking up, Fanny could hear and almost even feel him cross in front of her to the other chair, and draw it across the carpet to her side.

"You have been unhappy. I despise myself."

She shook her head hastily. "Sir! Please, do not. You owe me no apology, and any discussion of -- of that night -- will only prolong both our uneasiness."

Looking sideways at him, she saw that he was observing her closely. "Will you tell me you are not unhappy?" He asked, in an even lower voice, almost a whisper. Fanny wished he would stop, before she began to cry in spite of herself.

She replied truthfully and as reassuringly as she could under the circumstances, "I am very well, and happy to be your friend, Mr. Crawford."

As she spoke, she wondered at her own words. 'Friend' was more than she had ever expected to call him, and still less, she knew, than he desired to be. She half expected him to protest, but he merely said with that unaccustomed seriousness which was still surprising to her, "Thank you, Fanny."

They spoke no more the rest of the evening. Mary occupied his whole attention, as was only natural. Fanny watched them between stitches, and was -- not happy exactly, but relieved and almost contented.

Sir Thomas, and especially Edmund, rejoiced to see Henry Crawford waiting for them as they joined the ladies. They were both, perhaps, in a matchmaking mood, for different reasons, and both thought of Fanny as soon as they saw him.

"Why Crawford!" exclaimed Edmund. "What a cheerful surprise this is. Someone is happy to see you, without doubt."

"Why yes, I knew Mary would be disappointed if I stayed away," he replied, turning toward her. Fanny, from her corner, could not tell if he was dissembling or not. She suspected that Edmund had been hinting something else, and it pained her. Edmund at least had always refrained from teasing her about Mr. Crawford's intentions.

"Of course Mary must be gratified by your presence; we must honor such amiable feelings, but they are too natural to be surprising," said Sir Thomas. "But for myself, I am delighted. I count you a family connection myself now. Fanny, what are you doing in that corner? Do you not welcome Mr. Crawford back among us?"

"Yes, I do indeed," she replied quickly, but she did not speak loud enough for her uncle.

"Why so backward, Fanny? There is no need to shrink back. Mr. Crawford is quite family now."

"Fanny has been naughty," Mrs. Norris stage-whispered, bustling forward. "She likes to have her own way and sit alone in that unsocial manner, rather than form a useful part of the household as we all wish her to."

Fanny had risen to her feet in obedience to her uncle, but she felt the hot prickle of tears at Mrs. Norris's denouncement, which was audible to everyone in the room. To do her justice, Mrs. Norris intended no unusual cruelty by the actual timing of her remarks. It did not occur to her that Fanny had any dignity to be upheld, but her own had been injured by Mary Crawford's sharp tongue and she meant to retrieve her power of control by asserting it.

Henry Crawford had not intended to interfere with Sir Thomas, but Mrs. Norris forced his hand. He felt compelled to say, in as low a voice as possible to Sir Thomas, "Miss Price has been all that is gracious in her greeting to me. We will make her cry this way." And then he added loudly, "Bertram, did you happen to take Mary to see the ruins at ___ on the journey back? I know she had been wishing to visit them." If he had hoped for a reward, he got one in the look of pure relief Fanny sent him across the room as she returned to her seat. Sir Thomas, too, instantly appreciated Mr. Crawford's tact in smoothing over his own mistake. _His_ gratitude took shape in his joining at once in the general conversation about travel, as the most expedient way of ignoring Mrs. Norris.

Despite her thankfulness for being rescued, the evening could not be over quick enough for Fanny. She looked forward to the next day for all her possibility of serenity and happiness.


	13. Chapter 13

Fanny had hoped for some soothing solitude early the next morning, but instead, as she tripped down the stairs from the East Room, she found Edmund waiting in the corridor.

"Fanny! I am very glad to see you."

"And I you, of course, Edmund."

"How have you been?" he asked seriously, and when she did not reply at once he went on, as usual. "I can see that Susan has taken some of the burden from your shoulders, but she seems very busy with my mother. And you -- you seem still lonely?"

Fanny's eyes filled at this evidence of care for her feelings; and then she felt angry that he could still make her cry. This combination of feelings produced a rather indistinct reply.

"I am so glad," continued Edmund, gently, but taking her murmur for assent. "I am very glad to see that you have been making friends with Henry Crawford. I know that he, at least, can value your good qualities as they deserve, as very few value them."

"He has been very kind," said Fanny.

"You need not be wary with me, Fanny, as I already know your opinions on this subject. I do not mean to tease you, whatever Mary may say; I mean exactly what I said. It is not well for any person to be so much alone, with no congenial companionship -- that is Biblical, you know!"

"I have Susan, too," Fanny said, still afraid to reveal too much. Edmund was now inalterably united with Mary Crawford, who could not be trusted -- as his very mention of her showed.

"Susan does not read Shakespeare with you, does she?"

"Mr. Crawford is pleasant company for _all_ of us," she reiterated stubbornly.

Edmund smiled at her. "Another might think that you feel very little. I know that is not the case, and that your affections are in general as deep as hidden."

This was a remark that could not really be answered, and Fanny was glad to hear Mary's voice, for once.

"Edmund!" she called, and the door to Edmund's room, just on Fanny's left, opened. Unfortunately for Fanny's comfort, she noticed at once that Mary was wearing his dressing gown. Fanny recognized it by the fabric. "Oh, you have found Fanny! What does she say, my dear?"

"Nothing yet! I have not had a chance to ask her anything."

Mary turned to Fanny. "We want you to come and stay with us when we go back to Thornton Lacey. It is not so far away. I know how attached you are to the Park, but we will be seeing them all the time, and those at the Parsonage too," with a significant look. "And we must have you for a little while at least."

Since this invitation was exactly what Fanny had been hoping with all her might would not occur, she did not answer at once. But only a moment's thought convinced her that she had no possible recourse, no excuse that could bear the briefest examination. Her reply, therefore, must be that she would be happy to stay with them "if her uncle gave permission;" and to her habitual timidity must her first hesitation be attributed.

"I have already raised the subject with him, Fanny," assured Edmund kindly. "I knew you would wish to defer to his opinion, which I am happy to tell you is decidedly in our favor. He thinks nothing so proper as a visit to us just now. You can have no apprehension for my mother, for he thinks that Susan will do for her as a companion just as well while you are gone."

"Susan has grown very fond of my aunt," remarked Fanny flatly. That she herself could be so easily replaced was bad enough, without making Susan into a sort of all-purpose household tool to be fit into any role as necessary.

"Of course," agreed Edmund eagerly. "I always thought, from your letters, that Susan had a very warm heart, only wanting nurture and opportunity for refinement."

"I am very glad that Sir Thomas agreed to invite her here," added his dear wife, dutifully supporting him. "And it was extremely well-thought of by Henry."

"Henry suggested it?" cried Fanny in astonishment, not noticing in her surprise that she had echoed his Christian name.

"My dear, there, I am giving away secrets to the wrong people as constantly and with as much delight as you give advice to your parishioners," said Mary ruefully to her husband.

Fanny said nothing more, because anything that could be said would betray too much. This was a new evidence of Mr. Crawford's thoughtfulness, but what impressed her more was his silence. He had not come to her boasting of his good deeds as he once would have -- as he had on the occasion of his obtaining William's commission. He had seen the opportunity and what it would mean to Susan, after only having met Susan once, in Portsmouth. And he had taken action on her behalf out of disinterested goodness. No -- not disinterested -- she knew better than that. She knew he had done it for her. But if so, he had done it only to make her happy, and not to ingratiate himself with her. She was deeply touched.

It was in this frame of mind, that she made her way down to the stable for her ride. She had hoped perhaps to meet him somewhere in the course of it, but she was not prepared as she waited for the mare to be saddled, idly swishing her crop at dust motes, to hear Mr. Crawford's voice behind her. She jumped first, and then turned around.

"Good morning, Fanny! Edmund said I might find you here. I was hoping to walk with you, but perhaps I may ride with you instead -- if that meets with your approval."

Fanny looked her approbation, and he dismissed the groom. She put her hand on the rein while he turned to tighten the saddle. He had ridden his own chestnut up from the Parsonage, and Fanny wondered if that had been planned too. But he had never joined her at the stables before, and there was an obstacle. The pleasure of having his company in her ride could scarcely outweigh her acute embarrassment as he led her mare across to her.

He seemed to take it as a matter of course, but Fanny was not accustomed to riding with gentlemen alone, and being helped to mount by an indifferent groom was not exactly the same. For a minute, Mr. Crawford was very close to her, closer than he had ever been before, and she could feel his breath on her ear although she would not look up. His hands, warm even through his gloves, slid round her waist. A very slight pause, then she felt herself lifted, and she was up, settling herself into the side saddle and draping her habit comfortably, and he had turned his back to her as he swung himself lightly onto his horse. Fanny felt momentarily short of breath.

They rode out side by side at a walk, and once out in the lane, Fanny gave way to an overmastering impulse for speed, unusual with her -- but she had suddenly felt it would be good to feel cool breeze on her face. She pulled ahead of Mr. Crawford, and then he caught up and they cantered gloriously through the Park gate and on down the road with a thudding of hoofs.

They had gone some way before she pulled up, looking around her. There was a small stone cottage on the right, and hedgerows on the left starred with white flowers, and just ahead a rise in the road topped with a glimpse of bold blue sky through the trees. There! It must be the Jones farm, and they had ridden farther than she thought. Usually such exertion as required for a long canter would tire her out, but she felt today, breathing in bright cool air, as if she could ride for hours. Mr. Crawford was just ahead of her, and when she drew up even with him they paused by common consent, looking out across a clear landscape of fields, dotted with clumps of wood and striped with dark plough marks. All the colors, chocolate brown earth and yellow-green budding trees, and the red shirt of a farmer in the distance, had a crisp brightness to them.

"Are you tired, Fanny?" he asked after a few minutes.

"No, not at all -- I ought to be, but somehow in such beauty I am refreshed instead of fatigued."

"Then let us go back slowly, and we can talk as we go."

She turned, keeping to a walk, and he came up with her on the outside.

"Has your morning been pleasant?" he said, after some silence.

"Oh, on such a day, under such a sky -- I could not wish myself anywhere else, or doing anything but this."

"That is not an answer, Miss Price!"

"You asked whether it was pleasant, and surely the lovely weather is a pleasant fact."

"You know very well I meant to ask about you, yourself. I have not seen you for many days."

Five days, she thought, but in fact it had seemed _many_. She hardly knew how to answer. There were so many things that she could not mention or allude to, that she rather panicked and blurted without planning to: "Edmund and Mary have invited me to stay with them."

There was a pause on his side before she heard him mutter something like " -- blind fool -- ." She looked over, and caught such an expression of mingled sympathy and frustration on his face as he gazed at her, that it left her breathless. It took her a minute to realize how it was that he could possibly be sharing her feelings. With understanding came a gasp of shock like plunging into ice water.

"I know, Fanny," he said. "You need not say anything. I know it all."

She could not speak for shame. But with embarrassment surpassing anything she had ever felt, she understood in a flash. She, who had suffered so long in unrequited adoration, could not help but understand him. She remembered his black mood the night before he left for Everingham.

"There is not much to say, is there, Fanny?"

"How -- long -- have you -- " she choked out.

"The day of their marriage, I saw it in your eyes, at the moment you watched them pledging their vows -- no, no, do not be ashamed. I am far from blaming you for anything. I should beg your pardon, in fact; I am mortified that I should have betrayed my knowledge to you. I meant never to let you see that I knew."

"It is not -- you have done nothing wrong." She seemed to be regaining the power of speech little by little.

Earnestly he said, "Please do not regret that I know your secret; this knowledge has only helped me understand you better."

"I am very sorry," she whispered. "How you must have suffered --"

"Yes," he said. "I have."

Such perfect honesty between two people, on such a delicate subject, she had not imagined possible. She admired him for it, even as she deplored her own weakness for allowing him such power over her. Still, had he not demonstrated his trustworthiness?

She could not speak for some time; it was not tears that silenced her, though a few did fall. It was simply that she had nothing to say. She could not offer him anything at all adequate to their situation: there was no comfort, no friendly encouragement, in her power. Why had he fallen in love with her? How unnecessarily and cruelly complicated it all seemed -- was it not enough to be heartbroken, without being compelled to break another person's heart as well?

When she finally spoke, she tried to change the subject, but all her thoughts were on him, and she could not turn the conversation much out of its path. "I know what you did for Susan. It seems almost insulting at such a time, to offer you thanks; but I cannot withhold my gratitude. You have given me so much, and I have so little in return."

"I would do anything for you," he replied simply. "I have tried to keep it hidden, especially after I saw the truth -- after I realized what your own feelings are and must always be. I would not make you uncomfortable or unhappy for the world. But I cannot conceal from you now, that I would do anything for you. To give you Susan's company was little enough."

"It was not little to me. Oh, Mr. Crawford! I feel very wretched! I wish I need not hurt you any more than I have already done, though I hope you know, most unwittingly; but now," she said. "Now that there is nothing concealed from either of us, how then could we possibly continue --" She broke off.

"Nothing need change. We may continue in just the same way, as friends, if you like."

"No, I cannot agree to that. It would not be fair. How could I ask that?"

"Fanny, I have offered you my friendship already, have I not? I have not asked anything in return that you cannot give in clear conscience. I am under no misapprehension, and I have no hopes."

Fanny reached out and plucked a shining green leaf from an overhanging branch and whirled it between her fingers. The horses walked on without any particular direction.

"That cannot go on forever, though, can it?" she questioned softly.

"My dearest -- my dearest Fanny." He paused, to take a few breaths. "I leave everything to you. You must decide -- I am yours entirely." He could not keep the passion from the last words.

Fanny was shaken by his emotion; it called up some feeling in herself that she did not know how to name and did not want to own. It took but a minute to realize that she could not reject him this time; her heart rebelled against the thought. Yet neither could she accept him. To deceive him would be unthinkable. His honesty and courage deserved the same coin in return, but she did not know how much she ought to say, or whether she could possibly make herself speak the words. She looked at him for the first time since they had begun the conversation. His lips were pressed together, and she saw a muscle at his jaw tighten. She must force herself to speak, in compassion for him.

"I do not know what to do, sir. I do not -- love you," she choked on the awful word, then hurried on to the next, "not as a husband; but I dread to lose you. I -- missed you when you were gone. I wish I could say more, but I cannot. I only think of you as my friend, my dear friend."

"'Dear friend!' That is not 'only'. That is more than I hoped for." His expressive voice was deep with feeling. "What kind of relation can be founded on dear friendship, Fanny? Will you not allow me -- " he broke off sharply.

She could feel her heart shaking her with each beat. "Allow you to -- what?"

"No, no, I would ask too much."

They were entering the Park gate again. He muttered something that sounded like a disappointed exclamation. "We can walk," she prompted.

"Yes! Let us walk." As they approached the stable, he swung down from the horse, and came to help her down. Again for a moment he held her between his hands, and this time the very air between them seemed to burn. He let go hurriedly and moved away, calling to one of the boys to take charge of the horses.

"You won't be too tired?" he asked again, coming back with his own face flushed, and offering her his arm. Glancing up as she took it, Fanny thought he had never looked so nearly handsome. Once again, she asked herself if she could be his wife. Now it almost seemed possible -- it seemed real. But was it not too soon? Too hasty and rash? She had only that morning shed tears for Edmund. It would be unfair, and wrong, to enter into an engagement yet.


	14. Chapter 14

Fanny and Mr. Crawford walked slowly along a path that led by roundabout ways around the edge of the Park toward the side garden by the library. Fanny felt herself unsteady on her feet, and he seemed to be the same, for his shoulder kept bumping against hers.

"You wanted to ask me something?" she said, timidly, but too anxious to be patient.

"I am terribly inconsistent. I have just been promising you not to demand anything of you, and now I have all sorts of requests crowding each other to come forth. But it is your fault! You give me hope. Fanny, be very careful; do not say anything you do not mean. I know your compassion would sacrifice anything, but I do do not want your compassion."

"I can make few promises in return, but I will promise you now, Mr. Crawford, to be honest with you as you have been with me."

"Then tell me -- honestly -- can friendship ever become something closer, something more intimate?"

Fanny put her free hand up to her face; it felt glowing hot. "I have sometimes wondered the same."

"I believe it can. Fanny -- may I tell you --"

"Anything," she said, breathing quickly.

"I admired you once and determined to win you, almost as a game, or a challenge. I thought you pretty, and good; and perhaps you even enticed me the more for being so beyond my reach, but I did not really know you. It is friendship that has shown me what you are; yes, and made me love you, Fanny, for all the beauties of your character, not only the beauties of your person."

She was silent, both excited and distressed by his praise.

"I would not hurry you into a decision you might regret, dearest. I want to ask if you will let me wait, just as we have been, but acknowledging the hope that you have just given me. I will give you as much time as you wish; I will not press you. I wish only for permission to try."

Even this seemed a daunting commitment to Fanny. It was a risk: it wasn't safe. She feared it -- she feared disaster and scandal and she knew not what. She could scarcely believe yet, in her heart, that he truly, sincerely loved her. This was Henry Crawford, after all, and her nature was slow to change, even though she found this gentle wooing impossible to resist. Her loneliness, the fondness she could not help feeling for him, and the other feelings he provoked which she still ignored if she could -- every soft and tender feeling argued for him against her sterner determination.

"And what if I can never give you what you hope for?" she asked.

"I have already said," he returned seriously, "that I will never blame you. You have shown me your heart openly; I can ask for no more than that. I love you now, Fanny, more than I thought it was possible for me to love. I told you, I did not intend to fall in love with you. I was stupidly arrogant, but you conquered me before I knew it. I could not hurt you, Fanny. You must believe that. I only ask you not to banish me -- it is too late to ask for your permission to love you; I cannot help it now."

Fanny had no defenses against his pleading. Confidence and vanity she could reject, but not this sweet, gentle passion.

"I will try," she said, so low that he bent his head to hear her. "I will try to give you the answer you want, too; I cannot yet, but I will think of it."

"Fanny! My dearest --" he half-whispered. "No, say nothing. I know you are not mine yet, but I cannot help it just now -- " He stopped walking and turned her toward him, taking her hand in his. She looked up, and then down, not sure if she could bear the expression of his eyes fixed on her. But she did not resist as he lifted her hand to his face, drew back the edge of her glove, and kissed the inside of her wrist. She swayed, or the earth swayed, and he took her arms, laughing, to steady her.

"Do not fear me, dear. I'm only giddy for the moment. It will pass, and we will discuss Thompson's poems with great gravity."

"You must not tell anyone what I have said, not yet, please!" Fanny could not help saying. She did not want him to think her cold, but a sudden vision had risen of herself beset on all sides by family, some thinking she had accepted him, some thinking it rejection, none understanding.

"No, of course not," he cried.

"They would not understand. They would talk to me and try to push me one way and another," she added, more vehemently. "They will think me slow, or inconstant, or worse."

"Trust me. I will behave with perfect propriety. I will behave like a model young man -- my conversation will be so unexceptional you might write books from it." He laughed, pressing her hand, which he still retained; his spirits still exalted.

Fanny was too overcome with mingled confusion and apprehension to be in high spirits, but endeavoring to do him justice and to feel the trust he requested, she replied gently, "Very well, I will depend on you for protection."

"That is just what I want. You will not be disappointed in me, I promise you, Fanny."

"But --"

"What is it? Anything, Fanny, anything you like."

"Don't tell Mary either, please?"

"I won't tell her, if you wish it. But why not? Mary loves you."

"That's why," returned Fanny quickly, anxious not to offend him. "She is so affectionate to us both, I am afraid of her eager ways, sometimes."

He laughed, and promised.

They walked back to the house together, and Fanny could not remember later if they talked or were silent. On reaching the Park, he bid her farewell for the present, promising to return in the evening, and she sought the sanctuary of the East Room in a daze.

The ground slowly steadied itself beneath her feet, and she set herself to think rationally about the agreement she had just made. It was not so momentous really: all she had promised was to allow him to continue in friendly intimacy as closely as before and to think as well of him as she possibly could; both of which were only to her advantage, as she wanted a friend and hated her loneliness. And yet, despite this cool reasonable assessment, she still felt shaken when she remembered the look of joy in his eyes, and the way his lips had pressed against her wrist.

* * *

Henry Crawford had at that moment stopped to lean against the wall outside the library, tipsy with happiness. To him this was no simple acceptance of ordinary courtship. And perhaps he was nearer right than Fanny. He thought -- no, saw again in his mind's eye -- the image of Fanny in Portsmouth, with her face averted and her eyes on the sea. Three months ago she had not even liked him. He admitted that, now that he could rejoice in the affection she had offered -- the more than affection. She had closed her eyes as he kissed her hand, so moved was she by his very touch. He knew in his deepest soul that he was a self-confident, sometimes a vain man, but that had been no imagination, no wishful desire of his. She had been moved, and yes, passionate.

He took a deep breath. It was not the time to dwell over her charms, revisit her tendernesses. He must be calm, not excited. She had trusted him not to betray her, to shield her from the impertinence of some of her family, which he had often himself deplored. In such a task he must not fail! He put his hands over his eyes and rubbed at his face.

"Henry! Are you well?" It was Mary, coming down the hall from the morning room.

"Mary! I am -- " he cut himself off. He had very nearly spilt it all, and after he had promised Fanny to keep their agreement a secret. He had always confided in Mary, but Fanny must come first now.

"You are what? Tell me, Henry! I don't know whether you're sick, or in a passion. You look quite unlike yourself."

"I am in a passion, sister mine, and sick too, if you like." He spoke lightly -- he knew as well as anyone that Mary could be too pressing in her playful curiosity. She did not realize the effect her piercing mind had on weaker souls. No wonder Fanny feared her, now that he came to think of it.

"I have been out riding with Fanny," he continued. Let her draw her conclusions.

She burst out laughing. "Do not tell me, Henry, that you, devourer of young ladies, are lovesick! Look at you! -- pale, and hardly able to stand on your feet."

"Yes, physician, my very symptoms."

"She's very coldhearted to leave you in such a state. I've half a mind -- "

"No Mary," he said, catching her arm, and changing his tone. "I am quite serious; do not say a word to her. I have already made great progress -- she is easy in my company. She talks to me. I will not have her made uncomfortable by your pressing. You are quick, Mary, but remember that she is slow and cautious."

"I believe you really mean it. You have hope then, despite your sickly complexion just now."

"I have hope, Mary," he returned, lowering his voice. "I struggle, because I am more impatient than you can possibly imagine. If I can wait, you can. Remember that. If I hear of your disturbing my Fanny's peace, I will inform on you."

She laughed again, and he saw that his teasing soothed her worries. "No governesses now, Henry. You have no one to carry tales to."

"Oh, I know better." He leaned close and hissed mockingly, "I will tell your husband."

She hit his arm playfully. "I do not fear you, tyrant."

* * *

After dinner Henry came to join Fanny as usual, but she felt deeply awkward. She could not think of a thing to say to him. Why had she never noticed before the intense way he looked at her? She could feel it even when she was not looking at him. Or perhaps the look was new, now that he was allowed to do it.

"You were right about Mary," he murmured, leaning in to admire her work. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek and knew herself to be blushing, as if his heat had communicated itself to her own body.

She was almost too breathless to speak, but managed, "You did not tell her anything?"

"Of course not! Did I not promise you? I meant only that I can understand why you might fear her. She is too quick. But you are safe with me, Fanny."

The conversation must be turned. Fanny could not bear such remarks any longer, half-whispered against her ear, stirring the curls of hair that fell on her collar.

In desperation she said, "Tell me about Everingham."

This had been a lucky thought. His eyes lit at her interest. "Well, you know -- or perhaps you do not! -- that I dismissed my steward in March when I found my suspicions of his conduct had been correct. In this I thought I followed the advice you had so circumspectly refused to give, for I did what must be right. It could not be ignored any longer. His cruel and cheating ways had done myself and my property much damage as well as making miserable the lives of my tenants. Indeed, Fanny, I now feel ashamed that I had let this state of affairs continue for so long."

Fanny felt that she could talk about Everingham all evening. It was a safe topic, at least, and she was surprised to see how animated he had become while speaking of it. She spoke with much less restraint. "Perhaps you feel shame justly, but you must be glad that you have done well in the end, and that you did not prolong the situation any more."

"Yes, you must now tell me I did right, Fanny."

"You did right, indeed, Mr. Crawford, but you know that without my saying it. Please tell me what you did next. You needed a replacement for the position of steward, did you not?"

He could pause long enough to regret that despite the gentleness of her voice, he must still be 'Mr. Crawford' to her, then continued. "Yes, I did need a new man, and the task of finding him proved a great deal more arduous than I had suspected."

"But you have found someone, or else you would not be here."

"Yes, by accident as it seemed. A younger son of a genteel but impoverished family, who wished to occupy himself with useful work. I was skeptical at first, because of his youth, but I begin to believe that he is the ideal person to guard my interests. When I went back last week I found all just as he had written to me, and he needed very little of my help to solve the problems he had encountered."

"And your tenants? Is he kind to them?"

"Compassionate Fanny! I think so. But I am a poor judge, for I have been neglectful myself. I visited many of them when I was there in March, and I must admit, I was shocked."

"Shocked at the poverty?" she questioned, thinking at the same time of a nagging shame of her own, that she had not been more active in charity. She had sewn clothing to give to the poor, at Mrs. Norris's instigation, but she had always assumed that it was not her place to take on the responsibility of visiting which should belong to the lady of the house.

But he was answering, "Yes, at the poverty, but more at their hopelessness -- the poverty of spirit which is so much worse than a mere lack of ready money."

"How very well said!" she exclaimed. "But surely hopelessness can be remedied at once with relieving their poverty. If you see it so clearly, is there nothing you can do to alleviate their distress?"

He looked thoughtfully back at her. "Yes, if I lived there for more of the year, I think I could."

This seemed to be leading to the idea of settling down, so Fanny hastily voiced some of her own thoughts. "I wish I had done more to help the poor, myself, but I am too afraid of offending."

"I do not believe that. Who could you possibly offend with good works?" he laughed at her.

She blushed again. "I have only done what anyone might -- what my aunt -- perhaps there might be more material ways of helping than knitting a few stockings, but I thought I should not overstep my place. If I were in another position --" she broke off because her words had run away with her, and seemed to be going in a direction she did not want to explore just yet.

Henry gave her a speaking glance, as if he understood the root of her confusion, but said nothing.

At this interesting moment, Mrs. Bertram broke in on their tete-â-tete.

"Of what are you talking so solemnly, Henry? Miss Price," with mock stern finger pointing at her, "if you have transformed my brother into a serious thinker, you must be working unholy magic."

"Everyone cannot be foolish all the time," retorted Fanny, with more than her usual spirit coming to her friend's defense. To her astonishment she seemed to have said something witty. Henry actually grinned, and Mary pealed with laughter.

"Then what very wise thing have you been discussing?" she persisted, recovering herself. "You must teach me to be wise, and I will nod my head and stroke my chin as well as the best of you."

Fanny was too intimidated by her own successful sally to try again, so Henry spoke for her. "We were talking of Everingham."

"Oh, I love Everingham! You must not shut me out. I will admire your lakes and summer-cottages as long as you like."

"And tenant farmers, and stewards? Will you join us in canvassing those subjects too?"

"Certainly not. You must not let him bore you, Fanny, even though he has gotten himself into a domesticated landlord mood."

Fanny's protest that she was not and could not be bored, was lost, as Mary began talking of the visit Fanny was to pay them. What bonnets they should decorate together, what novels they should read, and what pieces for the harp she would play for Fanny's grateful ears, occupied the rest of their conversation. Fanny gazed helplessly at Mr. Crawford several times, but he, leaning back in his chair, seemed more amused than annoyed, and would not come to her rescue.


	15. Chapter 15

Much as she wished to, Fanny could not escape Mary's plans for her entertainment. She set out early Saturday morning for the rather dubious comfort of Thornton Lacey, which was to serve as her home and haven for the next month at least. A quiet embrace for Susan, and for Lady Bertram, a respectful curtsey for Sir Thomas; and Edmund handed her into the carriage, to nestle in uncertain intimacy with Mary on one seat, and expose herself to the affectionate if unseeing gaze of her cousin on the other. Fanny turned to wave out the window, and fortunately missed the sight of Mary kissing Edmund's hand most improperly.

Days at Thornton Lacey were quiet, surprisingly quiet for a house presided over by such a mercurial mistress as Mary Bertram. Edmund wrote his sermons in his study while Mary amused herself with trifling duties of housekeeping, answered letters, and played her harp for hours on end. Fanny wondered with some dread, how she of the dissipated London life could support such bland harmony for long; but for now, they were happy with all the playful happiness of any newly married couple: as Fanny must daily observe to her pain. Not that she wished them to be unhappy. But, although she tried with all her might to avert her eyes, to be blind and deaf, she could not entirely prevent herself from catching them in stolen kisses, and swift conjugal embraces. They might have given a pleasing picture of marital affection, to anyone a little older and less subjective.

They did not mean to shut her out, and indeed during the day Mary's companionship could be very agreeable, her exuberant nature tempered by her quiet surroundings, her intelligent mind responding to Fanny's hesitant conversation. In the evenings, however, her eyes focused only on Edmund, and his on her; and small blame to them. No young couple can possibly be good company for a shy and lonely girl recovering from heartbreak -- especially when one half of the couple happens to be the party responsible for the broken heart.

When Henry came to dine with them the first week, he was distressed to find Fanny pale and quiet, almost as subdued as she had used to look when she first came back to Mansfield. The shock of the change showed how much her spirits had really improved in the past months; but he could hardly rejoice at how much she _had_ been looking better when faced with a Fanny _now_ so sadly altered.

He did not have to contrive to get her alone; Mary and Edmund were too eager to play matchmakers, and Mary had invented a dull errand for herself before he had been sitting with them fifteen minutes.

Fanny would hardly meet his eyes, whether because she was embarrassed at Mary's conniving to get them together, or for some other reason. She returned nothing but one-syllable answers. Yes, she was well. No, she did not feel ill at all.

"This is insupportable!" he cried. "You look very depressed, Fanny, indeed you do. I can hardly bear to see it. And you will not talk to me. I knew I should have prevented your coming here in some way."

"Please," she said, turning white. "Do not speak of it -- if you have any compassion on me, do not speak of it."

"I will not say another word, but only if you will talk to me." He remembered that Fanny was always more at ease out of doors. "Come for a turn out in the garden with me -- if I recall, Bertram has the beginnings of a fine hedgerow walk along that pasture."

Fanny agreed to this.

"You have not been having any exercise, have you?" he said, when the sunlight had warmed a little color into her face.

She shook her head in reproof, but the color deepened instead of fading. As little as she liked personal remarks, Henry knew, it was no doubt more convenient to her to blame her health for her lack of spirits than some deeper cause.

"Well then, Miss Price, you have engaged to provide me with conversation, and I am waiting," he said, trying for a lighter tone.

"There is not much to talk about," said Fanny. "Sir -- Mr. Crawford -- you must not think I am ungrateful, or that I have no value for your presence here. But I am -- I am out of practice perhaps --" she broke off. Too much had happened between them for ease and comfort yet, he guessed.

"What have you been doing?" he suggested.

"Very little -- so little I amaze myself. I listen to Mary play the harp, write letters to Susan and my aunt, walk about, sew a little, look at fashion plates with Mary -- I hardly know what."

"What do you do in the evenings? I confess I can hardly imagine it. They cannot entertain much."

"We dined out once with the squire."

"And the rest of the time?"

"I read," said Fanny, and suddenly she half-smiled, a wry little smile. "And I listen to Edmund and Mary talk to each other."

Henry laughed before he could check himself. "Oh dear," he said. "That is very bad. They must be extremely dull company for you -- no wonder you are out of spirits." He looked down at her again to see if a his teasing would be too much for her, and was pleased to find her meeting his eyes with an almost cheerful look.

"I can confess to you," she said after a moment. "I know they meant to do me a kindness by inviting me, but I feel as if I were in the way. No one needs me here."

"And someone at least needs you at Mansfield," he said in a low tone.

Fanny blushed, and shook her head. She looked uneasy again, and he thought there might be tears in her eyes. Henry saw it would be wise to change the subject.

"What have you been reading, then?" he asked, and she rejoined quickly. She was reading Cowper again, she said -- perhaps she ought to try something new, but she loved her old favorites. They gave her comfort -- she did not say that, but he could see it was true.

But just as they were returning to the house, she stopped him. "Mr. Crawford!"

"Yes?"

"I am well, truly I am. It is -- difficult, being here," she spoke very softly. "But it is making me -- stronger, I think. I am not sunk in agony. I would not have you think that."

He was surprised that she admitted so much to him -- surprised and moved. But of course she would attempt to reassure him. She was too good. He hardly knew what to say -- it would be arrogant to thank her, and she did not want his sympathy. Instead of speaking he took her hand and kissed it quickly, before she could prevent him.

Henry was indescribably happy, and gratified, and proud too, to see how his presence seemed to affect Fanny for the better. When they sat down to dinner she joined in the conversation a little, without looking too reluctant; she smiled when he teased in the gentle way she liked. And he did not have to wonder if the improvement in her had been all his imagination, the too-eager self-pleasing imagination of a lover; for Mary confirmed it for him a little later after dinner.

Edmund had engaged Fanny in conversation, which appeared to me mostly on his side. But it left Mary free to whisper to her brother, "Look how Fanny smiles now, all rosy and bright -- laughing even! I wish I knew how you did it."

"Is it me?" he said, though he knew it was -- but he had need of confirmation. He could not help a sudden doubt, watching her look up at Edmund. He had never seen her so easy with her cousin -- but knowing what he knew, he could not be completely at peace with that, confident though he had been a minute ago.

"Do not affect stupidity, Henry; it does not become you," said Mary. "Of course it is all your doing. Fanny has not looked like that the whole time she has been with us. I should be quite cast down -- what a reflection on my skill as a hostess! -- but I shall take it instead all in compliment to you."

While Mary was speaking, Fanny looked over at them and caught his eye. She blushed and instantly looked down, but without the accompanying frown and shrinking away that he had once thought mere affectation. Now he knew that she had really disliked him, and almost trembled with joy that he should have so nearly won her, despite it all.

Mary had been watching too, as sharp of observation and comprehension as ever. "Now I come to think of it, Henry," she said, "I do not think Fanny has looked so happy in _longer_ than a week -- perhaps never since I have known her. I do believe -- I do believe I understand what you were talking about when you spoke of hope, last week."

"You see, I am not quite as out of my wits as you thought me then."

"I must acknowledge I did think you quite mad."

"Well, what of you? I did think you might have been a little more sympathetic, having so recently endured the torments yourself. A more unlikely pair to make love-matches than we two, I cannot imagine."

She turned away, laughing. "Nonsense, Henry -- I am always quite sane. I never allow myself to lose my wits."

He had meant to turn the conversation and inquire after her in earnest, but it was too late, she had moved away, whether to avoid him or merely by coincidence, he could not tell.

There was no reason to suspect anything but perfect happiness to fill the Thornton Lacey parsonage, no reason but the characters of the occupants. Henry had been struck by his own careless words -- how unlikely it really was that any two people as world-weary and cynical as he and Mary should have been fortunate enough to win the love of two such gentle, good creatures as Edmund Bertram and Fanny Price. It was a blessing he himself had learned to value as nearly miraculous. He had, that dark day he had fled back to Everingham, almost given up hope. That Fanny now smiled when she saw him and blushed when she met his eyes -- he could not quite convince himself that it was all his doing, much as he would like to. It was something else -- something completely undeserved. Something like grace, had he been accustomed to think in such theological terms.

Henry wondered if Mary ever thought the same.


	16. Chapter 16

One morning the two ladies at Thornton Lacey sat together writing, Fanny composing a letter to Susan, and Mary rather languidly penning a note to one of her London friends. The sound of the doorbell startled both of them, and their astonishment was all the greater when the door opened on Maria Rushworth. The greetings on all sides were warm, if insincere, and many expressions of astonishment were uttered. "They had no idea of Maria being up from town!" and "What a pleasant little party! She had stupidly forgotten that she would find Fanny here as well as Mary."

At last they subsided a little: Maria sat down on the sofa next to Fanny, and Mary ordered some tea to be brought in.

"Yes, we have only just arrived from town last week," Maria said, in answer to their previous exclamations at her being there. She looked well: her figure had filled out and could almost be called statuesque, and her color was very bright. But there was a sort of hard look in her eyes, that frightened Fanny. She wondered if Mrs. Rushworth was very unhappy in her marriage, and if so, what consolation she found in her life.

"And I have not yet congratulated you, Mary -- sister Mary!" Maria continued brightly. "The wedding was very quiet, my mother tells me. That is very like Edmund, of course, but I did wonder at you!"

"I had all I could want," replied Mary so gently that Fanny looked at her gratefully. "You know very well I have not many family, or friends I truly love. Edmund missed having all his family, I know, but my little pew was complete."

"No doubt you think yourself _vastly_ changed by marriage," said Maria.

To interrupt the awkward pause Fanny thought to ask after Julia. It seemed Miss Bertram had gone to stay with Lady --------, a very dear friend of the Rushworth family. Fanny expressed a little surprise that Sir Thomas raised no objection, but this observation apparently gave offense. Naturally Sir Thomas could place trust in the judgment of the Rushworths.

Mary, this time, broke the silence by inquiring whether Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth had visited at Mansfield Park since their arrival back at Sotherton.

"Oh, three or four times -- we have been there nearly every other day!" was the reply. "We have not seen dear Mama and Papa in so long, and besides --" Maria added slyly, "I think agreeable company might be necessary to console poor Mr. Crawford, who seems very solitary now at the parsonage."

Fanny raised her head involuntarily; she did not mean to catch Mary's eye, but having done so it was even worse that Maria should intercept their glance. Perhaps she could not read all their meaning, but she saw enough to make her suspicious: that much was apparent by the way she continued to inject praises of Mr. Crawford into the rest of the conversation. He was such a delightful companion, he was so clever at cards -- Maria expected he might go back to London when they went, he seemed to have missed society so much. In vain Mary tried to change the subject; Maria would not be diverted. And Fanny would not help her, for she could hardly trust herself to speak.

At length Maria departed. Mary and Fanny were for once united in their silence. Neither spoke until Mary burst out, half-laughing, "I never thought I should become so unwilling to hear my own brother praised. Fanny, I hope you hold her opinions as lightly as I do. You will not be troubled -- say you will not. You know very well this is no true representation of my brother's wishes. I am sure he has no intention of returning to town."

Fanny blushed, but replied, "I have no complaint to make. I should not be a good friend to Mr. Crawford if I suspected him of wrongdoing at every slight provocation."

It was not as warm a defense as Mary might have made herself, but she chose to be satisfied; although she could not let it rest without remarking that Maria Rushworth should learn to guard her tongue, as spitefulness did her no credit.

But Fanny would not say another word on the subject, not even to condemn Maria. If she could not trust in Mr. Crawford's loyalty now, their friendship could have no future, much less develop into something more. Nevertheless she privately felt as much and as bitter dislike of Maria Rushworth as she ever had. Selfish being! Having willfully made a brilliant marriage against the advice of her friends, she could not be satisfied with that, but must have every man at her feet. It did not seem fair.

Fanny would have scorned to question Mr. Crawford on his next visit. She would not be the arbiter of his behavior; and to betray any interest in what he thought of Maria Rushworth would have been as much as admitting to jealousy. But Mary had no such compunction.

"So the young Mrs. Rushworth is holding court, we have heard," she began, as they sat down to tea together.

"Is that what she told you?" said her brother, lightly but with a quick frown at Mary.

"Pretty nearly. She was determined to undermine our peace, was she not, Fanny? -- to make us discontented with our quiet ways. Such stories of card parties and gaiety as she flaunted before us."

Fanny was growing uncomfortable. A small, mean part of her was not unwilling to hear what Mr. Crawford would have to say about Maria; but as usual, Mary would taking it too far. To discuss amongst themselves in such a way, witty or not, reduced everything to the level of vulgar gossip.

To her relief, Edmund came in just then and the conversation changed course as he greeted Henry. Nothing else was said by anyone that could possibly refer to Mrs. Rushworth; and when Fanny had bid goodbye to Henry again, she reflected that he had seemed just the same as usual. Not that he should appear different -- she had expected nothing else. But she was glad he was just the same.

* * *

Fanny had been at Thornton Lacey for three weeks, and though they had passed with greater comfort and less pain to herself than she had at first feared, she could not help but begin to look forward to her return to Mansfield. She always felt a little homesick for Mansfield -- at least that was how she accounted to herself for the strange unsettled excitement she felt when she thought of it.

One morning afternoon Fanny had gone out for a walk alone, since Mary expressed a disinclination for stirring from her magazine. She had not gone far before she met Edmund, returning from a charitable visit to a elderly lady. Edmund brightened as he met her eyes.

"Just what I hoped! Fanny all alone. You do not object if I join you in your walk, do you?"

"Of course not," said Fanny, not quite beyond a very faint blush; but it was more a blush of habit than of real consciousness. "Was there something particular --?"

"No, nothing of any serious nature," returned Edmund. "I have just been thinking that I have hardly had any conversation with you the whole time you have been with us, and I missed my sisterly Fanny."

"That is very kind. You are right, now I think of it. We have always been three together. But I know Mary is a better conversationalist than I am."

"You will not catch me that way, Fanny. I can hardly disagree with any compliment to Mary; but that need not imply that I should never like to listen to anyone else, occasionally at least."

They were silent for a few minutes.

"Forgive me, Fanny, for raising the subject, as I know you dislike talking of it," he began -- and Fanny resigned herself to being pressed on the subject of Mr. Crawford. "-- but I must say I hope you will be happy. Next to one other's, your happiness is dearest to me in the world. I do not insist that you should accept Crawford at once -- that is what Mary would recommend, no doubt. Take as much time as you like, only be happy at last."

"I am happy now," protested Fanny.

"No, I think you are content now, for the most part. You are more contented than you were, and it warms my heart to see so much. But you are not quite happy. You will allow me to be an authority on happiness, Fanny."

"Certainly," she murmured, turning her head away.

Fanny did feel a great deal more hopeful for lasting happiness at Thornton Lacey than she had once, but she did not think Edmund an authority. She had been right about Edmund all along, she thought: he was infatuated. He was happy blindly still, not rationally. No, her stronger confidence in their prospects for happiness was founded on a better opinion of Mary Bertram. She had been surprised to find Mary so apparently easy in her new position, and her respect for Mary's character increased every day that quietly passed.

"You need not be so reserved with me," cried Edmund, smiling. "Do say you have seen us happy -- if only to gratify my foolish wish."

Of course she could say nothing of her thoughts to him. It occurred to her to wonder what Henry's opinion would be. "I do think you happy, Edmund -- happier than I even expected," she said gently.

"Cautious Fanny! Do not imagine I am ignorant of your meaning. Your standards are always high."

Fanny had no idea what _he_ was imagining, but it was impossible to continue the conversation, so she asked instead about the text for next Sunday's sermon and they talked theology until they returned to the house.


	17. Chapter 17

"Are you nearly finished packing, Fanny?" asked Mary, putting her head in at Fanny's bedroom door. "May I help you with anything?"

"Thank you, but no," replied Fanny, closing the lid of her trunk. "There is no more to do."

"Now you have cheated me of any usefulness at all! I hope it has not been an entirely unpleasant visit, in spite of my general failures as a hostess."

"Oh no!" cried Fanny, the more horrified because her words were not so far from the truth. "It has not been unpleasant! I am very sorry if I have given any such impression. I am slow to change, you know; it always takes me some time to feel completely comfortable in a new place."

"I think I begin to understand you better, Miss Fanny Price, and I do not think it was that only," said Mary with a sly glance.

Fanny began to protest again, but Mary interrupted her, laughing. "You miss some people at Mansfield. We shall not name any names, but -- I cannot feel too slighted, although, if it were anyone else -- Well, your company will be missed, Fanny. You know that already, I hope. Perhaps I am not effusive, but you understand my meaning."

Fanny was affected by so sincere an expression of friendship, and resolved with all her might to think better of Mary than before. But Mary's next words did not forward her resolve much.

"I cannot be sorry to intrude on Mrs. Rushworth's little court," she said. "She is not the only beautiful woman in the world, nor even the only one at Mansfield. I hope she may be improved by finding herself no longer of first importance with some, for all we have not her standing in the neighborhood."

A competition with Maria for notice, even Henry's notice, was the _last_ thing Fanny wished for, and although she thought the very idea ridiculous she was still unsettled by it. Besides, it was not the first time Mary had alluded to Maria's consequence as mistress of Sotherton, and it was a topic which could not show Mary in the best of light.

* * *

It was no uncommon thing for Fanny to be anxious on her way back to Mansfield Park, nor for her to gaze longingly out the window, searching for the first view of the roof. What was unusual was the way her heart beat as they turned down the drive, and how her head swirled giddily as she climbed down from the carriage. As they mounted the steps the doors were thrown open; there issued forth the sound of the pianoforte and low laughter, and there were a great many lighted windows. Staid Mansfield was alive tonight, and Fanny had guessed the animating cause before Baddeley had informed them that Mr and Mrs Rushworth were here, and not only they, but Mr. Tom Bertram and Miss Julia -- that is, Miss Bertram. Fanny fell back behind Edmund and Mary, without realizing that she did so. It was a homecoming indeed, but it was not for her.

They went forward to the door of the drawing room. The scene that met them there was not unpleasant: it was lively and bright; but it was not being enjoyed equally by all of its participants.

Lady Bertram smiled fuzzily as she lay on her sofa with Susan beside her, but Susan looked uneasy and puzzled. Mrs. Norris was in transports, that was clear, but Sir Thomas was most emphatically not. He wore the tight smile that had always frightened Fanny far more than this frowns.

As for the young people, Mr. Rushworth stood at the window by himself. Julia was playing pique with Tom, who had thrown off his coat; and Maria was playing Mozart on her pianoforte. Beside her on the piano bench, which was hardly large enough for two, sat Henry Crawford, bending toward her so that his cheek almost touched her bare shoulder. It looked as if he were whispering in her ear.

Only for a split second could the new arrivals observe the scene; then everyone's head turned toward them. Maria stopped playing, and Henry leaped up, coming toward them with what seemed like real pleasure. He embraced Mary first, shook Edmund by the hand, and held out his hand to Fanny. She took it, too much in shock to do anything else, but as she looked up at him, she could feel the tears prick at her eyes.

He looked confused, and half opened his mouth, but Fanny drew her hand away almost sharply. Still hardly in command of herself, she turned away to greet her uncle and aunt, and Susan. Before she could bring herself to look for Mr. Crawford again, Susan had pulled her off to sit next to her, near her aunt. Lady Bertram had a good many polite questions to ask about Fanny's visit, and whether she had finished knitting the shawl she had started before she left. While Fanny answered, she got her breath again and felt she might be able to endure a reasonable time with at least the appearance of composure, until she could get away to her room to think.

But she was not quite up to laughing at the boisterous ribbing she got from her cousin Tom, who teased her for being a fine lady, and demanded that she get up and turn round so he could see her new dress. Fanny would have refused this rather undignified request, but did not know how to do so politely, when she heard Henry, who was sitting at the card table now, interfering for her.

"Is that how you treat all the ladies of your acquaintance, Bertram? No wonder you've better fortune at the races than in the ballroom."

Tom Bertram growled at this and forgot Fanny, but even so she wished that Mr. Crawford had not defended her. His speech had earned her a glare from Maria and Julia both at the same time. She might almost have been transported a year back, thought Fanny; and the memory brought her no pleasure.

She sat in agonies for a few more minutes, then quietly begged her aunt would excuse her, as she was tired from traveling and had a headache. She did not look back to see if Henry Crawford watched her leave the room.

Fanny did not seek her bed at once. The East Room lured her; warm and stuffy as it was at this time of the year, it was still her sanctuary. But she did not take the same satisfaction from the sensation of homecoming she once would have. Neither grief nor anger had complete sway yet. A blind, gasping confusion overwhelmed her. She kept seeing, like a brightly-colored painting, the image of Henry bending over Maria Rushworth at the pianoforte. Was this the same Henry Crawford who had stood in Edmund's entry hall only a weeks ago, caressing her hand and unable to tear himself away? _Her_ Henry -- practically embracing another woman?

Sinking down on her stool she rocked back and forth insensibly. It came to her at last. She had realized that in truth Henry Crawford had won her heart. She was in love with him. There remained a faint ache in the part of herself that had once adored Edmund; but her whole affection, her whole self, was no longer his -- she was Henry's completely.

Anger followed this, for just as she realized that she wished to marry him, she realized that she could not. It would be foolish to pledge herself to a man so unsteady, who could show devotion to two women in the same week. She could only guess that his devotion the whole summer had been nothing but a determined attempt to win her -- an illusion to attract her, with no substance or foundation. There was nothing else for her to think.

Burying her head in her knees, Fanny burst into shaking sobs. Not again! Not again! Why, why must she be forever denied, forever loving what was just out of reach, or just forbidden? Was not one heartbreak enough to endure?

He did not even realize what it was he had done; either that or he was hardhearted enough to pretend to ignorance. Perhaps he really had intended nothing. That perhaps, might be true. He could not have meant to deceive her -- she remembered his agony when he thought himself hopeless, his offer to be nothing but a friend. No, she could not quite believe he had been deliberately false. But still, it was not enough. He did not love her enough to be faithful, whether he had intended it or not.

At this point in her musings, a soft knock on the door interrupted her. It must be Susan, she thought, and raising her head, she called "come in!" The door opened, and Henry himself entered, his face expressing anxiety, remorse, confusion -- everything most calculated to distress and melt her torn heart.


	18. Chapter 18

Henry had really been conscious of no guilt when he saw Fanny arrive. He had considered his position carefully, and if asked he would have thought his behavior had been completely blameless for the past few weeks. Maria Rushworth held a superficial attraction for him -- she was exactly the kind of woman he had always most enjoyed a flirtation with. She was bright, lively, witty, and just seductive enough to skirt round the edges of propriety, never quite crossing the line into scandal. But compared with the quiet joy of Fanny's company, Maria's charms were as insubstantial as champagne to pure water. He had determined that there was really no danger, but that he must be careful not to offend appearances. Sir Thomas's household did not see things with the same distinction he did.

But he enjoyed company, and the arrival of all the Bertram children at once drew him into the fun of their party. He contributed compliments and jokes as a matter of course. There could be nothing in that. He had been really puzzled at the grief-stricken accusation in Fanny's eyes. Yes, he had been sitting with Mrs. Rushworth when she arrived, but he had never thought Fanny had a jealous nature. Perhaps he had been wrong. At any rate, it caused him great pain just watching Fanny scuttle into the background, withdrawing from him. He did watch her leave the room and noted with a lover's acumen the heaviness of her step. This must be made right, and soon! He was quite willing to apologize for being friendly with Mrs. Rushworth, if Fanny really was upset by it. He would find her tomorrow morning -- that was not soon enough, but he could not see any way to talk with her first. A note? No, that could not express anything of substance, and it would be too easily misinterpreted.

In the bustle and called goodnights as the party broke up, an idea struck him. He caught Susan as she passed him with Lady Bertram's shawl.

"Miss Susan, I must speak with your sister, if I can. She was upset when she left the room." Susan looked at him sharply and he continued hastily, "I must put it right if I can."

"Perhaps you can speak with her tomorrow," she suggested, not very warmly.

"Please, Miss Susan, you are observant. You must know how I feel about your sister. You do, do you not?"

She looked thoughtful. "I do not know if Fanny would like it, Mr. Crawford -- "

"If you will not take pity on me," he entreated, desperately, "think of her. She will spend an unhappy night unless I can speak with her first. You know her."

"Very well, sir. She may have gone to her room, but if not -- I don't think I should tell you. Oh, all right, you needn't beg. She'll be in the East Room. It's her own sitting room. I'll take you as far as the upper hall."

If it were possible for Henry Crawford to feel nervous, he felt it as he stood at the door of the East Room and knocked. But he really thought his heart broke at the sight of her face, raised from her hands as he opened the door. She had been weeping her heart out; her eyes and nose were red and swollen. He cursed himself, and shut the door behind him. He should have been more careful -- once again he had underestimated the demanding nature of Fanny's morality. She was worth the trouble it would take. If he could pacify her this time, he vowed never to give her any uneasiness again.

But before he could speak, she was shaking her head at him. "Mr Crawford, you should not be here! How did you find -- no, you must go away. This is most improper -- " her voice broke and shuddered to a halt on the last word.

"No, I can't go yet. Hang propriety -- I must set this right before it is too late!" He spoke so passionately that she was silenced. He knelt before her, reached to touch her, then drew his hand back. He wouldn't touch her, not yet. He could not bear her recoiling away from him.

"I will go and leave you alone, but not until I speak to you. You need not say a word. Just tell me if I am right. You are grieved and angry. Yes?"

Her head had sunk back onto her knees. It nodded, slightly. Now for it.

"You were angry at coming home and seeing me sitting with your cousin Maria?"

Her head nodded again, but not without a choking sob, muffled by her hands and skirt.

"And you thought that I was breaking faith with you by flirting with another woman? That is the trouble, is it not?"

He did understand, after all. Fanny nodded, and to show she felt his acknowledging so much, she reached out a hand in the general direction she supposed him to be sitting. It came into contact with his warm solid body, and she made a squeaking noise and snatched it back; but before she could curl it into her lap again, he took it. His hands were warm too, and she became suddenly conscious that hers were shaking and damp with tears. He noticed too, and said in a different tone, "Fanny, you are burning, feverish. This room cannot be healthy! At least let me open a window!" and she heard him cross the room and wrestle with the sash.

She looked up. "That's the one that sticks," she said, momentarily distracted from tragedy. He looked round and met her eyes, though she looked away quickly. How intolerable! Everything was dreadful, even the sticking windows, and she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away from him.

He was too quick for her, again. "Now." He settled down back at her side, and took her hand. "Will you allow me to explain to you, Fanny?"

She was skeptical of explanations, but found herself whispering a ‘yes'.

"I wasn't flirting with your cousin -- I can promise you that. I can imagine how it must have looked to you, and if I have made you unhappy, I must take my share of blame, but I swear to you I did not mean to wrong you. She asked me to turn pages for her, and I could not in good manners refuse." He paused, then added, "to be honest, Fanny, I didn't think to refuse. That kind of thing is common at parties in town. I thought nothing of it, and I doubt she did either."

It sounded reasonable the way he put it, and Fanny did not know how to argue against him, but all the same she felt uneasy. "Mr. Rushworth thought it something, I could see. It is wicked to divide a husband and wife."

"You are no doubt absolutely correct, Fanny, as you usually are; and if so I must be more careful in future, even if she will not. It ought to be her first care as well, but if she will not guard his feelings I see that I must. Nevertheless I think Mr Rushworth is quite often jealous where there is no cause, because he cannot understand her mind or her pleasures."

It was said so calmly, and there was so much truth in his observation about Mr. Rushworth, that Fanny felt he must be right. Her head still buried in her hands, she thought over what he had said. He had sounded sincere, and if he had not been taught the same principles she had, that was not his fault either. At least he seemed to understand the value of guarding against even the appearance of wrongdoing, although he did not seem to realize how truly shocked she had been by the sight of him with Maria. Perhaps all was not lost; maybe he could in time come to think as she did.

She looked up slowly, aware at once of how disheveled her face and hair must look. But she must see his eyes. He was nearer her than she had thought, bending over her tenderly, and looking as if he would embrace her with the slightest provocation or encouragement. She did not dare to move, but she gazed up at him, trying to see into his eyes.

He put one hand up to his face, shielding his eyes from her gaze, but keeping hold of her hand with the other. When he spoke his voice caught and stumbled. "Fanny, you have no cause to fear or doubt. No one else has a claim on my heart. I am yours now -- and if you will only speak the word, I am yours forever."

Fanny did not at first realize what caused that catch in his voice -- she had never seen a man weep before. When she understood the new sound in his voice she could hardly speak herself, but with the impulse of her heart impelling her irresistibly past any doubts, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and reached her other hand around his neck. At once his arms came round her, catching her close to him, and his head bent over hers. A hot drop fell on her cheek and she did not know whether it fell from her own eyes, or his.

She said "Yes," her voice muffled against his shoulder, and felt him still at the sound.

"Fanny? Did you say -- did you mean -- " He gasped as if he were struggling for breath. Only the idea of his agony could have induced Fanny to speak so boldly, but since he seemed incapable of saying the words, she must. She could not let him suffer so.

"Yes, I will marry you --" Of course she knew his Christian name, had used his Christian name in her thoughts, but she had to force herself to add the next two syllables: "Henry."

The next few minutes were a bit indistinct. Fanny clung helplessly to his shoulders as he kissed her cheeks, her forehead -- his face pressed against hers with an unfamiliar roughness. Her hair had come down as he put his fingers through it. She had at first not the energy, and then neither the will nor the desire, to stop him. The world whirled and then went very still as his lips found hers.

Fanny let her head fall back against his arm, her breath coming short. How odd it was to look into his face when it was so close to hers! She could not see it all at once; she gazed at his mouth which had just been touching hers, and lifted her eyes in order to look into his.

"I am taking liberties, I know, Fanny," he said, and she could see he was smiling by the way the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

She had to swallow before she could speak. "You are very improper, sir." It came out all soft, although she was trying with all her might to feel offended.

"Do say my name again, dearest."

She smiled, embarrassment for once overcome by happiness. "Henry, you are very improper."

"You provoke me to kiss you, Fanny," he muttered in her ear.

Fanny felt completely scandalous, leaning there in his arms. She said reluctantly, "It must be late, and if anyone should see you here -- no, you must go."

"Do not banish me yet, Fanny."

"Is it not enough for one night?" she pleaded, softly. "I can hardly think -- I feel as if my brain were bursting."

This remark apparently gave him satisfaction. "Mine too," he whispered, and he kissed her again, his hands around her back clasping her even closer to him. "But perhaps it is easier for me than it is for you, not so sudden. I have waited so long for you. Oh, very well, love," as she tried to frown at him. "I will go, but you must promise to dream of me tonight."

It was the sort of speech that she had always thought silly and insincere, but in the heat of his embrace it did not seem unlikely that she would actually dream of him. She did not say so, however.

"Before I go --" he said, with a teasing look.

"What is it? What do you want now?"

"I have kissed you a dozen times and got nothing in return."

Fanny could not refuse him. She stretched on tiptoe and put her hands on his shoulders to balance herself, and pressed a kiss on his cheek next to his mouth. He shook his head at her, and caressed her face, whispering, "I will expect more tomorrow, Fanny -- I shall not be satisfied with that!" He opened the door, fumbling with the latch because he kept looking over his shoulder at her; and he was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

Fanny woke the next morning nearly at daybreak -- still too many hours before she might reasonably hope to see Henry. She dressed, taking unusual pains with her hair and dress, of course, but feeling all the same that there was not much she could do to improve her appearance. And if he had not objected last night to a face red from crying and hair falling from its pins, he was hardly likely to find her repulsive now, in a fresh summer gown and glowing in spite of herself when she looked in the mirror.

Feeling that she had done all she could to ensure that her appearance was passable, or at least neat and trim, Fanny went out to walk in the garden. It was cool and wet under a sky still pale violet shading to gold, but warming fast; and Fanny raised her face to the light with gratitude. She had been too feverish last night to think much; and though she had lain in her bed for a long time before sleep found her, it was not serious contemplation that kept her awake, but a tangled rush of impressions and sensations. She wanted now to think about what had happened, to think rationally if it were at all possible.

She had not progressed very far in her cogitations -- for remembered moments and words from last night kept intruding despite her resolution to ignore them -- when she was interrupted by Susan, who ran across the lawn and fell in beside her.

"Good morning, Fanny," said Susan with a faint note of inquiry. "I just saw you leaving the house -- you will not mind if I join you?"

"Oh no! It is lovely to be out so early," Fanny replied, as they linked arms. She really was not sorry to have her solitude disturbed. Susan's company always had a soothing effect.

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"It seems as if we have not really talked in so long," said Fanny.

"You have been away," said Susan practically.

"But before that, even -- I feel as if I have neglected our reading."

"I have been busy enough with Aunt Bertram. You should not blame yourself so much. Now why can you be smiling, sister dear?"

"That sounds like something Hen -- Mr. Crawford would say to me -- not to blame myself," murmured Fanny, half embarrassed and half delighted at the opportunity to mention his name.

Susan did a little skip. "And you have been busy too, sly Fanny! Tell me all about it. What has happened?"

"How do you know anything has happened?" asked Fanny, suspicious but not entirely surprised.

Susan explained her part in the events of last night. "You're not angry, are you, that I told him where to find you?"

"I can hardly be angry now, can I?"

"Then he did make everything right? Please tell me, Fanny! You know I've always liked Mr. Crawford."

"When he came up to the East Room, I was so unhappy; so very unhappy. I thought -- it doesn't matter what I thought. I suppose I was jealous of him, and that feeling made me understand my own heart. I knew at that moment that -- "

" -- that you loved him," guessed Susan, with a blissful sigh. "But what did he say when he found you?"

"He just said -- oh, I hardly know. Except that I was crying, and he understood exactly what I was feeling, and told me that he was mine always, and he -- " Fanny had blurted it all out until the end, and there she stopped with a fierce blush.

"Did he kiss you?" Susan demanded.

Fanny said nothing, which was answer enough.

"Oh Fanny! Then -- are you to be married?"

"Yes, we are engaged," said Fanny, feeling very odd putting it in words, but smiling because she could not help it.

"When will the wedding take place?"

"I suppose that will be for my uncle to decide. He has not spoken to him yet since last night, of course -- there has not been time yet for such details. But I know my uncle has already given his blessing. Oh! Susan, you will be my bridesmaid, will you not?"

Susan accepted this invitation instantly, with at least as much joy as Fanny felt in extending it.

"Of course I will! Oh Fanny, I am happy for you. I will have to have a new dress!"

She did not stop talking excitedly in the same vein for some minutes, and Fanny was spared having to say much more or even to think much, while she was able to feel very content in having made Susan happy too. As they turned and walked back toward the house, Fanny was fluttered, although not surprised, to meet Henry coming toward them.

Susan greeted him perhaps more effusively than Fanny could herself, and very properly offered him her hand and congratulations as a sister. Afraid that Susan was altogether too willing to further Henry's ends, Fanny clasped her sister's arm tighter; but it was no use. Susan knew what she was about. She had no intentions of staying to be chaperone and to interfere with Mr. Crawford's courting.

As yet hardly having even spoken to him, Fanny could scarcely meet his eyes as Susan danced her way back to the house and up the front steps. She trembled; she could not think what to say to him. To embrace, to clasp in each others' arms, to kiss, was one thing while under the sway of deep emotion and in the privacy of her East Room. In the glaring sunshine on the front lawn of Mansfield Park, she could hardly imagine such a thing.

Henry took her hand and stroked it with his own. "Fanny -- will you not look at me? You are not -- you are not regretting, are you --?"

That took her out of herself, because she was instantly anxious to reassure him. "Oh no. No, forgive me, Henry, I am only confused; so much has happened I hardly know how to be myself any more."

"That's better," he said, and he bent and kissed her quickly. "We will talk more later, but I must see your uncle as soon as he will receive me. I am in a fever to have it all settled, dearest."

* * *

Sir Thomas received Henry gravely, listened to his joyful announcement, and sat for several minutes apparently in thought.

Henry had expected a little more animation -- not perhaps to match his own, but at least as much pleasure as Sir Thomas had shown in their previous interviews. He waited with some puzzlement and slight dismay.

"Having already given you my permission to address my niece on the subject of marriage," began Sir Thomas at last, "I can hardly withdraw it."

"Withdraw it!"

"I am inclined, indeed," continued Sir Thomas without appearing to have heard him, "to believe the best of your intentions and to extend the benefit of the doubt to behavior which some might have seen as contrary to Fanny's interests."

"I am afraid I do not understand you," said Henry, with a sinking feeling that perhaps he did understand him.

"You must be aware, young man, that what may pass as acceptable flattery in town society, might cause unfavorable comment and even gossip, in a confined company such as ours. I refer, of course, to your attentions to my daughter, Mrs. Rushworth. No --" as Henry opened his mouth to offer an explanation -- "I am determined to regard the matter as well-intentioned, if mistaken, courtesy."

"I certainly intended nothing untoward," protested Henry, as he saw an opening to speak.

"I understand that," said Sir Thomas, in a tone a little warmer and gentler than he had at first employed. "If I did not believe you to be sincere, I would certainly not trust you with my niece's hand, whatever promises I had made previously."

Beginning to recover his breath, Henry attempted again to explain. "I may have been careless, and if I have excited your notice, sir, I should be more cautious in future in my attentions to Mrs. Rushworth."

"Please, say no more about it. I have said I believe you to be well-intentioned. However, I will accept your promise to be more careful."

The two men shook hands, Henry still a little breathless at this unexpected assault.

He reminded himself again, as he attempted to recover his good humor before seeking Fanny's company, that the difference between country manners and city manners was not to be underestimated. He might have been inclined to resent some of Sir Thomas's expressions, but it was all for Fanny's sake, after all. He did reflect ruefully that if the Admiral or any of his former associates had heard him promise not to turn pages for married women at the pianoforte, they might have been a great deal more shocked than Sir Thomas had been at the reverse.

* * *

"When shall we tell Mary and Edmund?" was Henry's question after he had found Fanny in the morning room, where she had been writing a letter to William. Lady Bertram and Susan sat on the other side of the room, but since Lady Bertram seemed to be sleeping, and Susan was determined to notice only her embroidery, they were no hindrance to intimate conversation.

Fanny had just been reflecting on whether to tell William about her engagement. Telling people was the hardest part, she thought. She liked to make her family happy, and it was pleasant to know they all approved of what she had done, but she dreaded the first transports with all the attendant questions, the notice, and the wonder.

"I do not know -- when are we likely to see them?" was her reply to Henry.

"Wait for the next time we see them -- Mary would never forgive us! I thought we might ride to Thornton Lacey the next day or tomorrow, if you think you can ride such a long way."

"I will try, and it will not seem very long if you are with me," Fanny said.

This earned her a sly kiss on the cheek. "Thank you -- I was beginning to think you were wishing for a secret engagement."

"Oh no --" said Fanny in confusion.

"If you did, it is too late now. I have spoken to Sir Thomas."

"Did you speak of when the wedding is to take place?"

"Not yet; I wished to consult with you first. Fanny, I think it may be necessary for me to go back to Everingham for a few weeks, to see to the harvest. If you dislike it very much, I will endeavor to find it not quite necessary, but I do think it will be better if I do."

"No, no, do not think of me. You must do what you think is really best."

"But if I go, we must put off the wedding until the end of October at least."

"That is not so long, is it?"

"Fanny! You can bear to be without me for a month, then?"

She made no reply but gave him a skeptical look.

Henry laughed. "Very well, then it is decided. The end of October, I will suggest to your uncle."


	20. Chapter 20

Fanny was afraid she was going to be completely knocked up by the ride to Thornton Lacey, after all. The morning had been pleasant, and though she had been glad to dismount when they arrived, the cool air was refreshing with every breath. Henry's company was more than enough to distract her from any discomfort. But now -- try as she might to sit up in her saddle as straight and strong as ever, she was wishing hard for the first sight of Mansfield. Her back hurt and she felt the first stirrings of a headache as well.

It was very unlucky that she had been so foolish as to agree to go today, because they were engaged to dine with the Rushworths tomorrow. Either she would be obliged to stay home, which would attract attention -- not to mention that it would be rude, since the dinner was in some part for her -- or, she would go out to dine anyway, and be miserable the whole time.

The visit had been as nearly satisfactory to Fanny as possible. Mary had, of course, been happy with all the demonstrative energy of her nature; but Fanny endured being embraced and petted with a great deal more equanimity than she might have once. Mary was not like her, and never would be, but Fanny could not refuse to believe that she really loved her. She could see the similarities between brother and sister; the ardor that she had grown to love in Henry, she must love in Mary too.

Edmund had begged for the honor of performing the marriage ceremony, and of course they could not refuse. Henry would have liked to say no -- Fanny had seen the wry twist of his mouth as he agreed -- but she was surprised to find herself indifferent. She loved Edmund -- would love him always. He was more than a cousin; he was dearer to her than a brother. But the idea of feeling passion toward him no longer seemed even reasonable. It was impossible, and therefore imagining what would have happened if things had gone differently -- that was impossible too.

Henry drew his horse to a halt to wait for her, and she sat up a little straighter, smiling at him. But if she was learning to understand his expressions, he had had even longer to come to know hers.

"You are tired, Fanny?" he said, reaching out his hand to her.

"I must admit that I am, more than I had expected."

"Ah, forgive me, dearest. It was selfish of me to suggest that we ride. I wanted to have you to myself, but I should have been thinking of your well being before my own satisfaction."

"I know it is weak to be so easily tired," Fanny began with regret.

"Hush," he interrupted, taking her gloved hand in his and rubbing her fingers gently. "We have not more than another mile to go -- perhaps two, but certainly not more than that. Can you endure that much?"

"Oh yes, certainly; if I have come so far, a few more miles is nothing at all."

"Tell me honestly, now, Fanny. My horse will bear two, if you wish; or I will lead yours --"

She blushed. "I am in no danger of anything worse than a headache, which I deserve for my silliness. I should have known better."

He shook his head, but did not press her.

Fanny felt it very unfair. She could keep up with him in nothing. She could not read with his expression, talk with his wit. And though she loved to ride and knew he did too, she had not even enough spirit to ride for one day without tiring herself out and paying for it the next day. She rather wondered that Henry did not despise her.

* * *

They had seen very little of the Rushworths. Mrs. Norris carried the news of the engagement to her favorite niece, and whether they commiserated together in private was unknown. Fanny could not help but feel how odd it was to sit down to dinner at Maria Rushworth's table with Henry on one hand and Edmund on the other. Nothing could be more unlikely to happen, and yet there she was.

But then, everything seemed strange to her at the moment. Her fears had been realized and she had woken that morning already feeling listless and sore. She had tried to seem well, so as not to give rise to questions from her uncle, but she was afraid Henry was not deceived. The headache which still troubled her made everything seem distant and wavering, and Maria's high voice hurt her ears so she could hardly attend to what she said. Fanny was unspeakably grateful for Henry's low voice, replying for her so she need not say more than politeness required.

Mrs. Rushworth had begun her assault by turning charmingly toward Henry and quizzing him on the location of their honeymoon. She had hardly begun to speak before Fanny felt herself growing hot. She hated to hear the subject of their honeymoon tossed about lightly by a person she disliked, not to mention that she had a particular discomfort in hearing it discussed at all. She looked at her plate, wishing she could rub her forehead with her hand.

Henry, however, did not appear perturbed in the slightest. "We may go to the Lakes, or perhaps even Ireland, for some weeks, Mrs. Rushworth."

"That is not very original of you." No doubt Maria thought herself very forbearing. She had not, after all, said anything unpleasant.

"Originality was not our object in choosing it."

"If you mean to be conventional, you might at least go somewhere fashionable. It will be the height of the season at Brighton or Weymouth."

"Fashion, also, was not our object," said Henry.

"Henry!" his sister, sparkling with mischief, leaned across the table. "You are very sly, but we can guess what your object was."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Rushworth. "We all know fashionable society would not agree with Fanny."

"I doubt fashionable society would agree with me on my honeymoon, either," Henry remarked calmly. "Fanny's society will be enough for me."

Fanny blushed with embarrassment, and Maria Rushworth with pique.

"And then, I suppose, you will retire to Everingham and never be seen in decent company again."

Henry answered the question as if he had not even heard the implied insult. "We will not go back to Everingham at once, no. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram kindly asked that we stop at Mansfield first. It will not be easy for Fanny to say farewell to her home, knowing how very much she loves it."

"I suppose that means you will not be in town for the season," she said, with a light laugh that contrived to sound disdainful but not actually outright sneering. "Well, in that case I hope you will postpone your journey for a few more weeks. We mean to have a real family party here at Sotherton for Christmas. Do we not, Rushworth?"

"Family Christmas gatherings are a great tradition at Sotherton," said the elder Mrs. Rushworth smugly.

This invitation from the Rushworths was the occasion of the first disagreement between Fanny and Henry -- Fanny refused to think of it as a quarrel.

"I wish you had not accepted the invitation to spend Christmas at Sotherton," she said to Henry when he came to ride with her the next day.

"Why, Fanny, what would you have had me say? I could hardly refuse, not when all our families will be gathered together."

"Of course you are right. It is just that now it will be so long before we can go back to Everingham. I thought we might be there for Christmas, and now it will be months before I even see my new home."

"But you have not been anxious to leave Mansfield. Did you not say just the other day how much you will miss it?"

It was true, leaving her beloved Mansfield for a new and unfamiliar place made Fanny uneasy, even in thought. But a stay at Sotherton, where she found unpleasant memories in every room, was certainly not what she had intended. Maria Rushworth was the last person with whom she wanted to spend her first few months of married life.

None of this, however, could she easily explain to Henry.

"I would have liked to talk it over with you," she said at length.

"I am sorry, Fanny, but I still do not see how, even after talking it over, we could have given any other answer. And it is not like you to cavil at spending time with your family."

"You are right, Henry," she admitted, but despite her blinking a tear had overflowed her brimming eyes. He _would_ see it, of course.

"Why Fanny, what is the matter?" he said in a tone of horror, pulling her into his arms. "Tell me -- if it is so unpleasant to you, I will invent an excuse. We need not go. Only say you are not afraid of Mrs. Rushworth on my behalf."

"No." Truthfully, she added, "-- not exactly. But it is so unpleasant to have her always saying things she intends to hurt us --"

"You must not think I do not notice when she insults you. I am sorry I cannot protect you any better, dearest; but when I attempt to defend you she grows worse. I know you are too good to regard her -- you are her superior in every way. She can have no power over _you_ , Fanny."

For answer Fanny pressed her face into his coat lapel. "No, but -- I think after all, I will miss you very much while you are away."

When he had kissed her until they were both breathless, Henry said, "I will not go, then."

"You will, I know you will. It is right to go."

"Then I will not go tomorrow -- I can put it off until next week."

Fanny shook her head, smiling. "You must not say that."

"Must I not, Miss Price? Why is that?"

"You know why," Fanny said. "You know what will happen if you keep putting it off."

"Nothing very dreadful, and a good many very delightful things."

She looked down. It was difficult sometimes to determine if he were teasing or serious, and though she knew it made him happy to flirt a little, she was afraid of always being the one to remind him of his duty.

"Do not look like that, Fanny," he whispered. "I know too well what will make you happy, and I do not mean to neglect anything that will provide for your safety and comfort. Everingham will be dearer to me as _your_ home than it has ever been to me before."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read Austen, you know that "knocked up" used to mean "tired out" not "pregnant." I dithered about using the phrase because I knew it might make some people snicker (okay, it makes me snicker) but it's authentic to the time period, so I did!


	21. Chapter 21

Though there was much of married life to which Fanny had yet to become accustomed, she had not felt the difference in herself so acutely as when she entered Sotherton as Mrs. Henry Crawford. She was forced to keep reminding herself, as Maria's housekeeper showed them to their rooms, that she was no longer Fanny Price, a poor cousin of Mrs. Rushworth's, but an invited guest, the lady of her own house, though she had yet to see it.

It was an even stranger feeling to dress for dinner here, than it had been that evening she had dined here after her engagement, or than her first evening back at Mansfield as a married woman. It had been odd to go back to Mansfield, and share a bedroom with Henry; not her old back bedroom, but one of the finer guest rooms. But after all, it was Mansfield and she was among family. The going down to dinner, and being escorted in state by Sir Thomas as befitted a bride, was almost like a joke there. Henry had teased her about it, and so had Mary.

But now she was neither at home, nor alone with Henry among strangers who would not bother to look at her; and very likely Maria and Julia and the other guests would be watching her at every moment. She was trying not to dwell too much on it while she pinned up the last strand of hair, when Henry came in from the dressing room.

"What will you wear for a necklace tonight?" he asked, coming up behind her and looking at her in the heavy and ornate mirror over the dressing table. Their room was rather old-fashioned, and Fanny wondered whether Maria had put much planning into the room assignments.

"Surely the pearl necklace is too fine for a family dinner?" she answered Henry, as he held up the pendant he had given her for a wedding present -- a much too extravagant wedding present, she had protested in vain. "I thought the gold chain Mary gave me last year."

He picked it up and fastened it around her neck for her. "Yes, the one Mary gave you -- I remember it well. Mary is such a bad influence," he said in a low tone, and Fanny saw in the mirror that he was giving her a smile half-sly, half-apologetic.

"Do not blame Mary for your iniquities!" she cried, a little disturbed that he should refer to it. She seldom liked to revisit the past.

He bent and kissed the back of her neck, murmuring against her ear. "I am only teasing, Fanny. I know it was very bad, and I am the more sorry that my first gift to you could not be given outright, so you would have only good and blameless memories to associate with it."

She could not but be charmed, as much by his words as by his caresses. Perhaps it was better to acknowledge past mistakes, rather than attempt to ignore them -- which would be only pretense, since clearly he remembered the incident of the necklace just as well as she did.

"You are forgiven, Henry," she said, rising and turning into his arms. "And I will not think of the necklace with unpleasant associations, if I can -- I will think of this, instead." Her voice dropped as his mouth met hers.

Fanny went down to meet the company for dinner with more confidence -- with Henry's kiss on her lips, she could not feel that anyone else's opinion mattered nearly as much.

* * *

As it was so near Christmas, Sotherton was already decorated with holly branches and all the other appurtenances of the season; and Fanny thought they suited its stolid grandeur rather well. Julia and Tom had arrived before them, and Mary and Edmund were expected on the morrow, though Edmund would have to ride back to Thornton Lacey to preach his Christmas sermon -- a duty he refused to leave to a curate. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram were asked to Christmas dinner, but Lady Bertram did not like to stay overnight. A Rushworth cousin was to come later, as well.

Between Tom and Julia, and Maria, the dinner was lively enough, even though some of the expected company were yet to arrive. After dinner Maria suggested cards.

"I would play," she said, "but when Mrs. Bertram is here we may have more music -- perhaps a glee, or we may sing carols. Mr. Crawford, will you play whist? Mr. Rushworth will not play, so I am left without a partner."

"We have too many for one table of whist, and not enough for two tables of anything," objected Henry, frowning. "Fanny, would you like --?"

"No, no, I will not play," said Fanny. "If Mrs. Rushworth prefers whist I will be happy to observe you."

"I do prefer whist," said Maria, smiling.

"But --" Henry hestitated, but Fanny was anxious above all to avoid a scene.

"I am content," she said in a low voice, for his ears.

That was enough for Maria. She took his arm, and led him off. Henry made a face at Fanny over his shoulder, but she did not think he seemed too reluctant. And really, there was no reason why he should not play cards. Fanny hoped she had faith and generosity enough not to be jealous of him.

After all, she had not expected much from the party at Sotherton. To be quiet and proper, and not to attract too much notice, was all she wished for herself; and to avoid any unpleasantness, the best she could hope for the company in general.

* * *

Mary and Edmund's arrival made the party complete. Fanny thought that it would always be so -- Mary was the kind of person who made any gathering livelier and more amusing and more charming by her very presence.

They had come just in time for dinner, and were whisked away upstairs to dress before they had done more than greet the other guests. But Mary met Fanny on the stairs as they went down to the drawing room.

"Fanny! Dear sister, how well you look. I meant to say so last week when we dined at Mansfield, but I was distracted and forgot. But you look even better now. Marriage agrees with you -- I may say that as an older married woman, you know. It is one of the sly things we say, so that we may look knowing and wise."

"Thank you. You look very well yourself," said Fanny. "That is a new dress, is it not?"

"It is not. I hesitate to confess, Fanny, for you will be so shocked," she said, laughing. "It is an old dress I had made for winter two years ago, and I turned it and remade it. Do not look at my hem, for it is dreadfully botched. It is my first time turning a dress, but these are the straits we poor clergymen's wives are forced to. Is it not a horrid tale?"

"You are teasing me, Mary."

"Of course I am -- what else am I to do? If I attempted to hide my dress's ignoble origins, I should be ashamed of myself, and I never feel ashamed. I have made it a rule, in fact."

Fanny did not answer that, because she did not understand her. She could not tell if Mary were really in high spirits, or only affecting to be. It worried her.

"We have hardly talked in so many months," Mary continued. "I should say, 'this age' and affect to cry, but I am quite serious. Since you visited us I have never been quite satisfied with Thornton Lacey -- it feels as though you should live there too. I should like to have your company always, but I suppose Henry would object."

"I should object to what?" he asked, coming up behind them. "Or may I not inquire too closely?"

"I meant to take Fanny and have her with me always at Thornton Lacey, but you will very likely prevent me."

"Yes, I certainly will," he said, taking Fanny's hand. "I am sorry, but I must insist on keeping my wife for myself."

"But perhaps you will come to see us in the summer, when we are well settled at Everingham," said Fanny. It had seemed the right thing to say, but she hesitated and looked up at Henry. "That is, if you do not mind."

"No, of course not -- you are the mistress of Everingham now, dearest. You must issue whatever invitations you choose," he replied warmly. "And I should never dare to object to Mary in any case, although I will watch her carefully to make sure she does not attempt to carry you off with her."

"We are sisters now, you know," cried Mary defiantly. "And we will not be separated, not by the claims of a mere husband!"

As she spoke, Edmund came down the stairs. Fanny flushed as if she had been caught in wrongdoing. She did not like the look on Edmund's face; he made no sign of having heard Mary's last words, but Fanny could not doubt that he had. She looked at Henry anxiously, but he was greeting Edmund warmly and did not appear troubled either.

Fanny did not know what Mary was about. It was as if she had returned to the mocking scorn that had sometimes made Fanny so uneasy before her marriage. And she had not been so when Fanny was visiting Thornton Lacey -- then her pretty speeches had been all in favor of marriage and domesticity. Fanny was disappointed and dismayed to think that it had all been acting.

She took Henry's arm as they continued to the drawing room, and contrived to whisper to him, "Mary seems troubled, I think."

"Do you? I did not see anything but high spirits," he returned, also in a low voice. But he paused as if struck, and added, "No, perhaps there was something. You are very quick to observe, Fanny. I would not say 'troubled,' exactly, but there was an edge of -- I do not know what."

"Unhappiness?" she suggested.

Henry shook his head and opened his mouth as if to say something, but there was no more time; they were waited for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know if "turning a dress" was common during the Regency period, when dresses were not as voluminous as they were later in the century. The idea is that you take a worn dress and turn the fabric inside-out so it looks fresh again, and resew the hems. I borrowed that concept from several 19th century books, specifically from a memorable scene in Louisa May Alcott's _An Old-Fashioned Girl_ , because I needed a specific example of the way Mary's life has changed from the style she was used to.


	22. Chapter 22

The following days continued in a similar pattern: whether charades, or music, or cards was the entertainment of the evening, Maria gathered around her those who were wittiest and most charming. As the wittiest and most charming of course included Henry, Fanny had not been allowed very much time with him. It was perhaps to be expected in a large party, and she reminded herself again and again that she must not be inconsiderate, even if she was a newlywed. Henry seemed to be enjoying himself, as he always did in company; it would be abominable to curtail his pleasure with selfish complaining.

On this evening, they were playing cards again. Though Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram were not present, Maria had invited enough young people from the neighborhood to make up several tables. There were still two left out, but she did not stop to inquire about them; either she did not count Edmund and Fanny as guests, or she knew that they would not complain whatever she did.

Fanny would not really have minded being left out of the cards, ordinarily, since she did not care for the noise of such a large group, and knew she would only be a hindrance. She had sat down at the desk in the corner to write an over-due letter to William, and in such occupation she might have been content; but she could not prevent herself from occasionally looking over her shoulder at the table on the other side of the room. Maria had again managed to get Henry as a partner. It would have been difficult to refuse politely, but knowing his powers of persuasion Fanny thought he might have managed it if he had really wanted to. Maria was leaning forward and laughing at him with her eyes, just as Fanny looked around, her face glowing with arch delight. Perhaps it was just as well, Fanny thought, that she could not see _his_ face.

Edmund was not playing either -- he had gone to the library to fetch a book, and come back with it. Fanny had not seen him turn a page in some minutes, however. She looked over at him and met his eyes; and he got up and came over to her.

"If you are finished with your letter, will you walk with me, Fanny?" he asked.

"I am not finished, but I will write more later -- I have no more to say just now," she replied. "I would be happy to walk with you, if you will wait while I change my shoes and fetch a shawl."

In fact, it had been more thinking than writing. What could she write to William about? There was so much that was too private to be shared, even with her brother. And it was hard to describe the Sotherton party in any way without letting a tinge of bitterness through. A walk with Edmund would be a welcome distraction.

It was almost like a year ago, as they went down through the garden wilderness, which being sunken was protected from the chilly wind. Sotherton was cold and white instead of hot and green, but they themselves were the same, after all that had happened. Nothing had changed, though everything had changed. Edmund was silent, but in spite of all the doubts and uneasiness of the past week, she felt as comfortable and safe in his company as ever.

"You do not seem unhappy, Fanny." said he abruptly.

Fanny started, though of course he could not know what she had been thinking. "Why should I be unhappy, cousin?"

"No reason in the world. I am glad that you are so well and contented. Perhaps I am surprised to find happiness in others, because I am not --" he broke off.

"You are not happy, Edmund?" she asked, when it seemed he did not intend to continue.

"Fanny, I do not know what to do. I should not speak of it, but I need help, and I feel as if I could confide in you."

Fanny reflected -- she felt a little apprehensive about what he might say, but if he needed help, how could she refuse? And surely it must be Edmund's part to decide what should be proper to discuss with her. She said, "I am ready to listen, if you feel sure it is right; I must trust your nice sense of propriety to decide. But perhaps your wife should be the one --"

"No, Fanny, I cannot speak to Mary. The matter concerns her. I think I must explain it to you. That can do no harm, for you are the soul of discretion, and if you can suggest anything to better the situation I will have gained immeasurably and lost nothing."

"What is it, Edmund?"

"I fear -- I very much fear that I cannot keep Mary happy. She is not made for my life. I thought that it would be enough that she loves me -- that everything else would follow. But it is not so. She does care for me, I think, but she cannot be content with solitude. She grows restless at Thornton Lacey, in such a confined society. I wish I could gratify her wish, Fanny! But I cannot afford to go to Town, even if I had not duties which prevent me in any case."

"She knows that, surely."

"It makes no difference to her. She has no capacity for self-sacrifice, for the discipline of denial. Perhaps it is unfair to blame her -- the way she was taught to live from childhood --"

"But Edmund, have you talked with her?"

"I have tried, but it is no good. Oh Fanny, you know her! It is all charm and half-apologies that mean nothing, and then she laughs it off and promises to be good. And then she will put her arms around me and -- and she makes it impossible for me to say anything."

Fanny blushed. He should not be saying this to her -- flattering though it was that he should seek her out to confide in. She wondered that after all, Edmund should be the one regretting -- but then she stopped short. It was dangerous to consider in that direction.

"I am very sorry, but I do not see how I am to help you," she said.

"Perhaps you can think of some diversion, some way to catch her interest, or even if you and Henry could invite her to visit occasionally -- not at first of course, but when you have settled in at Everingham. She is so fond of you, and she seemed happiest when you visited us."

"I have already asked her to visit us in the new year," Fanny said. "But Everingham will not be very lively either, I think. I am sure there are neighbors, and Henry likes to have company, so perhaps --"

"Thank you, Fanny," he said earnestly, and pressed her hand.

"But Edmund, I do not think you should rely on me, or even Henry. If Mary is unhappy, it is you who must be her comfort, before anyone else." She stopped, recollecting herself. "Forgive me, Edmund, I have no right to offer advice, and I have neither wisdom or experience that should enable me to recommend any course of action to you."

"No, you are right, Fanny -- you so often are. You may be inexperienced, but I do not think your conscience often directs you wrongly. I should be her comfort, but -- I do not know how. Tell me, Fanny. Instruct me."

Fanny was both embarrassed and troubled. Edmund did not speak like himself and she was uneasy with the confidence he was putting in her.

"Have you thought that perhaps Mary is just lonely?" she asked at length, thinking back over the conversation she had had with Mary when they first arrived.

"She might go to visit Mrs. Grant whenever she likes, or make friends among some of the respectable women of the neighborhood, but she does not do that. I cannot believe she is lonely. She has never complained to me of loneliness."

Mary did not complain directly -- it was not her way. Fanny wondered that Edmund did not know that himself. Surely he should know her better than anyone, as Henry knew Fanny herself better than anyone. At least, she had thought he did; but then that implied Henry should realize that she was unhappy staying at Sotherton, that it was antithetical to everything in her nature. And he did not seem to notice how she felt.

Fanny sighed. On her wedding day, she remembered thinking that it was the end at last -- the end to all uncertainty, the destination of her journey. How foolish she had been! A wedding was not the end at all.

"Speak, Fanny --" Edmund urged. "What are you thinking?"

She opened her mouth to explain to him, but in spite of the fact that he had so long been her confidante, she could not begin now. She felt that he would not understand.

"I am just thinking about Mary," she said with partial truth. "Can you not ask her, Edmund? Would it not be better? She is not used to speaking of her deepest feelings, I think -- she has been taught to hide them. But you are her husband; she must learn to trust you."

"No. I cannot speak to her in that way. You are right that she hides her feelings, Fanny; but I cannot force her to trust me. If I could only describe to you the nature of the relations between us -- if you only knew --"

"Please do not!" cried Fanny in horror.

"What are you fearing, Fanny? I only mean that there is no intimacy of mind and soul. I feel as if my wife is a stranger to me. I think we were closer to each other when we were debating the merits of the clergy as a profession, last year, than we are now."

Fanny did not know what to say.

"I dare say we will be late to tea," said Edmund. "Thank you, Fanny, for -- thank you --" and he pressed her hand, with a speaking look.

When they went in to the house, the card tables had broken up and everyone was standing in idle conversation awaiting tea. Mary was at the piano, laughing up at Tom and the young Sotherton cousin.

Henry left a group near the fire when he saw Fanny enter.

"Fanny -- I did not know you intended to disappear," he said, drawing her a little aside to the window.

"I was only walking in the garden," she returned, astonished by his look and tone.

"With Edmund?"

"Certainly." There was no reason for her to blush, yet she felt her face heat. It was the way Henry was looking at her.

"You were asked for," was all he said, "and I did not know where to find you."

"I am sorry," she began, but they were interrupted.

"Mr. Crawford! You are wanted." It was Maria. "Your taste and musical discernment are required -- we cannot decide which glee to sing. Assist us, if you please," and she put her hand on his arm.

Henry went, without another word to Fanny.

She remained by the window, looking up as the stars began to be visible in the dusk. What Henry meant by questioning her about what she had been doing, she could not imagine. While he sat with Maria every evening, what harm could there be in her walking out with Edmund -- who was now her brother?


	23. Chapter 23

Fanny had expected that Henry would speak to her when they retired to their room; and she had her defense all ready. But he said nothing, either of her walk with Edmund or of his wishing to find her. She thought that perhaps his reproach had been only the result of a momentary irritation, and endeavored to forget it herself.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Edmund was to ride back to Thornton Lacey at some time in the morning, and it was a fine day for riding. It had snowed, but the sun was glaringly bright and as the day grew warmer it looked as if the snow would disappear by dinner time. The rest of the company, inspired perhaps by Edmund's mentioning it, talked of riding out themselves for pleasure. Everyone had grown tired of indoor pursuits and felt the attraction of refreshing themselves outdoors. If it should be cold, no matter -- they would be enlivened by the exercise and the housekeeper would prepare hot drinks for their return.

Fanny wavered even as the ladies went to change into riding habits and Mr. Rushworth assured anyone who would listen that he had more than enough horses in his stable to mount everyone. She could not decide; though she missed riding and longed for fresh air as much as anyone, Maria had talked of riding a good distance, and she knew that she would either interfere with their enjoyment, or disgrace herself trying to keep up with them. But to stay home looked very unsociable. Either course seemed likely to end in mortification and awkwardness.

While she was thus thinking, she looked up and saw Henry standing with Maria across the room. They seemed to be talking privately, and his head was bent down to her as he spoke earnestly about something. Maria flashed a passionate look up at him, and Fanny was instantly decided. She would not go.

"I do not think I feel well enough to ride," she said to Julia, who was nearest her; and she went out into the hall, walking as quickly as she could.

Edmund was in the hall, his gloves and hat ready on the side table, settling his overcoat on his shoulders.

"Ah, Fanny," he said. "I wanted to have a word with you before I go. Will you step aside with me? Only for a moment -- I would not detain you from the day's pleasure."

"Of course," she murmured mechanically, and followed him into the library.

"It is regarding the matter we spoke of yesterday," began Edmund. "I mean to stay at Thornton Lacey until Sunday, since it is only a few days away. While I am gone, may I entrust Mary to your care, Fanny?"

"My care! What do you mean, Edmund?"

"I mean, will you talk with her and try to find if there is some way to make her happier?"

"I will talk with her, naturally. But I do think you are laying too much responsibility on me. I would not like to guarantee any other person's happiness."

"I did say ‘try', Fanny."

"I will try, on my own account as Mary's friend and sister. But I hope," she could not forbear adding, "I hope you will talk with her also, when you return."

"Thank you from my heart," he said, making no reply to her last request. And taking her hand, he carried it to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

Fanny drew her hand back sharply. She felt very uneasy, and then ashamed of her own uneasiness. She had once longed for such attentions from Edmund, and though she had long ago determined it impossible to think of him as anything but a cousin, a part of her could not be comfortable in the intimacy of a brother with him.

When Edmund had gone, she sat in the library for a few minutes to recover her composure. She had not, after all, done anything wrong. And she did not thing Edmund intended any wrong. He should not turn to her before Mary -- but perhaps he did not know what else to do. Fanny remembered that she had always thought Edmund's feeling for Mary was nearer infatuation than love. It was inevitable that he should be disillusioned; such a state cannot continue forever. Much as she had always admired Edmund, she felt at the moment a great deal sorrier for Mary; it was not Mary's fault that he had deceived himself.

After perhaps fifteen minutes Fanny went out into the hall. It was silent; she crossed to the open door of the morning room, and thought at first that it was empty too. But it was not quite deserted -- Henry stood by the window.

"Has everyone gone already?" she asked, as he turned his head, but did not speak. "Why did you not -- I thought you were to go riding too?"

"You think me completely heartless, apparently; but no matter what other faults I may have, I would not leave my wife behind without a word," he said, his voice colder than she had ever heard it. "For the second time in as many days, I did not know where to find you."

"I was only just across the hall," Fanny stammered, her logical assessment of Edmund's motives and her own feelings deserting her. "I was -- Edmund wished --"

"Yes, so the butler informed me," snapped Henry. He turned around to show his face darkened with anger. "I find it hard to understand your determination to do what you know will hurt me. If you prefer your cousin's company to mine, very well; but at least have to courtesy to inform me of your whereabouts so I may not be reduced to asking the servants where my wife is."

Fanny gasped under the drenching chill of this speech. "I -- did not -- I do not prefer -- what can you mean, Henry?" But even as she spoke, she felt a guilty dread fall upon her. He could not be speaking of her -- it sounded so sordid, so horrible. And yet, she had been uneasy in Edmund's company.

"Will you force me to say it?" he said, averting his face. "I do not suppose you meant to do me wrong -- I know you well enough for that. I do not suppose you thought how it might appear. But I am still your husband and I resent -- yes, Fanny, resent bitterly -- your confiding in another. And knowing what I know, what your feelings for him have been -- "

He broke off as Fanny went white. She did not tremble or go faint, but she could not speak. Denial was necessary, but her brain seemed to have frozen.

" _I_ did not confide in _him_!" she whispered, and stopped there. What a stupid thing to say; she knew at once that Henry did not care who had confided in whom. Understanding struck her like a second blow, with more force than the first. She had used Henry's own excuse, that she had not really done anything wrong. But she was mistaken, and he was right. Her conversations with Edmund had been intimate, after all. The fact that Edmund had talked while she only listened did not change that fact.

And appearances mattered -- that was what she had herself had tried to explain to Henry on the night they became engaged. She had hurt Henry, even though she had not really done anything wrong -- it was hurt, not pride, she could see in his half-hidden profile.

Fanny stood petrified as her mind turned over and rearranged itself. She, the outraged innocent, was just as much in the wrong as Henry with his free manners. She had wronged him, after all; if her actions might be excusable on the grounds of habit and affection, her heart's motives had been reprehensible and sinful. She reviewed with a stab of inner shame how flattered she had been that Edmund sought her out; her own embarrassment which ought to have warned her that she was not behaving with perfect propriety. She had been unfaithful to Henry in thought; and her disloyalty was unbearably painful to contemplate. Her actions had hurt not only Henry, but Edmund and Mary too. And she had done this thinking herself perfectly above reproach, while she felt virtuously patient in bearing with Henry's light flirtations.

She looked up to see that he had his hand on the door; he was leaving her.

"No, no! Henry! Do not go yet. Please listen to me. You are right, but I did not think -- "

He shook his head, still with his back turned to her. "Stop, Fanny. Leave me be for the moment. I must have time to calm myself." He went out, and closed the door behind him.

Fanny sank down on the floor where she stood and hid her face in her hands in a storm of weeping, too shaken to contemplate anything. When the sobs stopped she got up unsteadily and went upstairs to their rooms. She sat down in the broad old window seat, leaning her head against the glass to cool her heated face. Utter misery filled her heart. She felt hurt by Henry's resentment, but that was not the most overwhelming feeling. Indeed, she deserved everything he could say. No, the worst of it was her own stupidity, and yes, pride. She could see now, in the light of her own self-knowledge, the dark little thought that had lurked at the back of her mind: the idea that she was and always would be Henry's moral superior. That she had anything to learn from him had never crossed her mind. And now she was disgusted with herself. Her spiritual pride had been as abominable as his spiritual laxity, and worse, for she ought to have known better. For the moment, she hated herself.

The most heartfelt prayer for forgiveness that she had ever prayed, made her feel a little better, and she turned her thoughts to Henry. A few wild fears crossed her mind: would he do something rash to harm himself? Would he go away and leave her behind? Would he even listen to her apologies? She tried to reason with herself, but love's fear is irrational and will not be calmed. It had never occurred to Fanny that married people might argue and yet come together stronger than before. The examples of marriage she had had before her showed no such reality, and she dreaded that it was all over for her.

It can only be imagined what a wretched day Fanny spent. She could not face the rest of the company, and stayed in her room pleading a headache, which had become actually true, and no wonder after all her crying. It grew dark and she strained her ears listening for his footstep. He would not go to bed in anger, would he? Surely he would speak to her first. He must. Oh please let him come!


	24. Chapter 24

Henry thanked God the house was deserted. He could not have borne with any politeness at the moment. Mr. Rushworth had offered him a horse to ride, so he went straight to the stables, and asked which way the rest had ridden. He thanked the boy and set off in the opposite direction.

That Fanny should have sought her cousin's company before his, should have put Edmund's wishes in first priority above his, hurt him deeply, not merely because he knew Fanny to have loved Edmund once. He did not really doubt Fanny's faithfulness -- her integrity, her sense of moral rectitude, was his guarantee even without her love. But what chafed the wound was the knowledge that Edmund deserved Fanny more than he did. Edmund would not have made Fanny so unhappy -- he would not have flirted with another woman, even lightly; or left his wife neglected.

He had been flirting. It was only just to admit it to himself when he had complained of Fanny's behavior. It meant nothing -- how often he had said that! He had meant only to make himself agreeable to the company. But it was too easy for him to flirt in his habitual way. His treatment of Maria Rushworth had been more particular than mere politeness required.

No wonder that Fanny had sought other society! Henry shook his head in disgust at himself. The same offense again! How often he had thought that Fanny's love was a gift he did not merit. But an undeserved gift can also be a burden. He would never be worthy of her. Perhaps it was useless to try.

Still -- the look on Fanny's face when he had reproached her with her old affections for Edmund -- he would never forget it. He had never deserved her, but now he had wounded her more deeply than ever. It was impossible not to compare his own emotion to what she must be feeling. After earning her trust, how despicable must be a man who could then break her heart.

Fanny hated being at Sotherton. He knew that. He ought not to have forgotten it. With a sudden resolution he turned back toward the house.

* * *

"Fanny?" It was Henry's voice at the door, unexpectedly. It opened and he peered round it, but Fanny was so stiff from sitting in one attitude that she could hardly move, let alone throw herself in his arms as she longed to do.

"My dearest, you are sitting in the dark," he said, softly coming towards her. She stretched out her hands and the next moment he had pulled her to her feet, to hold her against his chest.

"Forgive me, Fanny," he whispered at last, to her dismay.

"No, do not say that; you have apologized too often already. This time I am to beg your forgiveness, Henry! You were exactly right. I have been so wrong, and so proud -- so unworthy --"

He bent as if to kiss her, then drew back, hesitating. He did not let go of her, and she could not help leaning her head on his shoulder, though his emotions so far seemed uncertain.

"Perhaps you'd better explain what you mean, Fanny," he said. "I hate to be at odds, but I am not sure we are understanding each other."

They were too alike in their wish to avoid trouble, Fanny thought. Explaining would be difficult and painful. Nevertheless, when he asked her in that voice, she could not evade him.

"I mean just as I said. You were quite right. Edmund and I spoke only of Mary -- he is very unhappy; did you know? But," hurrying on lest she should lose the courage to say it, "it does not matter what we talked about; to speak with him on such matters was completely improper, as much as I longed to help Edmund. It was too intimate, just as you said, and I -- liked it too much." It was very hard to say the last words.

There was a silence. "You liked it," repeated Henry in a flat voice.

"No, no, no!" she exclaimed, horrified. "Not like that. I don't mean that I still feel for Edmund what I used to. No, you must not think that, Henry -- I love you. I do love you, so very dearly --"

At that, he did kiss her, with passionate haste. Fanny broke away to say breathlessly, "I only mean that I was flattered by Edmund's wish to confide in me. I was pleased to be admired. I have not been so important to Edmund in a long time, perhaps never."

"As for that, Fanny, I should never have cast up to you my knowledge of your past in such a way. It was ungenerous and cruel, especially from one who -- well, let us say that I can understand the appeal of flattery better than you know. I have neglected you. If you did wish for the company of Edmund, who has so long been dear to you, it would be my fault only. And I know you do not harbor any guilty inclination."

She clenched her hand on his sleeve. "Oh Henry! You are too good. I did not mean any wrong, but it should have been enough that it made you uneasy. That itself was bad enough. But I am afraid my actions may have hurt Mary and Edmund too. She may see it just as you did. You must know, I thought myself above reproach all the while. I was proud even."

"You, Fanny -- proud?" he rejoined with a smile. The smile disappeared as he continued, "That is just what I thought myself when I was with Mrs. Rushworth -- do not let her name give you pain, Fanny. Listen to me. I never would have been able to comprehend how I was doing wrong, if I had not been able to see it from your point of view, when I felt the same way you did. And you have more to forgive, for my neglect made your trifling trespass possible."

"Not trifling, if it made you unhappy," she murmured.

He moved away, impatiently, and walked across the room. "Fanny!" he burst out. "I must admit I have always thought morality stuffy and boring. I thought the rules of right and wrong merely stiff commandments imposed by society. You have taught me that doing right is really nothing more nor less than unselfish love. We were both wrong exactly because we hurt others. Good intentions mean nothing if you assume they are correct without thinking," he said earnestly.

Their eyes met; he smiled in that particular way he had of combining mischief and tenderness. "What have you done to me, Fanny? You've got me sermonizing already."

It was incomprehensible how she had so long withstood his charm -- she melted now at his very look. He reached out and swung her in to him with one arm while with the free hand he wiped the tears from her face; she lifted her mouth to him and he bent his head at the same time with the same impulse.

Fanny lay long awake that night; more than three months of marriage had not yet accustomed her to the sensation of sharing a bed. Henry stirred, his hand brushed her side, and she could feel herself blushing in the dark even with no one to see. She held her breath to listen to his breathing. Yes, slow and even. Perhaps she might dare to nestle a little closer, very cautiously so as not to waken him --

"Fanny?"

"I am sorry! I didn't mean to trouble you."

"You could not trouble me -- anyway, I wasn't asleep. Come here --" after a little awkward rearranging, they rested close, Fanny on her side with her head on his shoulder.

"Happy, Fanny?"

"Very happy, Henry."

"But not quite content," he said. "I should not have made you come here. I should have known how unhappy you would be here."

She pressed a little closer to him for answer. She could not deny it -- she did long to leave Sotherton.

"Would you like to go home, my love?" he asked.

"Home?" For a moment, she was confused. "Oh! You mean Everingham!"

"Yes. Our home."

"I would like to very much, Henry."

He fumbled in the darkness to touch her face, and having found it, kissed it tenderly. "I do not suppose we can leave tomorrow, as it is Christmas Day, but we will go as soon as we can."

"That is the best Christmas present you could make me, Henry."

"Then good night, Fanny, my love, and sleep well."

"Good night, Henry," she whispered back, and nestled her head close to his.

* * *

"What are we to do about Mary?" asked Fanny some days later. The weather had held fair as if making ready for their journey. It was frosty, but that made good traveling weather, Henry said. No mud to stick in the wheels -- they flew across the frozen ground as easily as along a paved street. It was cold inside the carriage, true, but that merely provided Henry an excuse to hold her close. He had piled them both so high with rugs and blankets that Fanny hardly noticed when the brick for her feet had grown cold.

"What _can_ we do about Mary?" Henry echoed her question.

"I thought you might think of something," she said, hesitating. "But if you do not like to interfere --" She had thought Henry would no longer be troubled by the subject of Edmund and Mary, but perhaps she had been wrong.

"You misunderstand me, dearest. I would wish for their happiness as much as you do. But we cannot _make_ them happy."

"But surely we might do a little to help."

"If Mary is really lonely, it will be doing her a kindness to invite her to stay with us, as you had planned. But Fanny, I do not think you ought to expect any great change in her relation with Edmund."

Fanny was distressed. "Oh but Henry -- there must be something --"

"You think me harsh, Fanny?"

"No," she said. "I think you are right, and it makes me sad. It is so dreadful to see them unhappy. A brother and sister to us -- and Edmund the best friend I ever had. You do not mind if I say so?"

"No, no. I should be a brute of a husband if I minded that, now."

"But we shall see them so often, I hope, and must it always be like this? -- never easy or contented together? Never understanding each other?"

Henry tightened his arm around her. "We may hope it will not always be so. We may pray. But I know Mary as I know myself. Until she has learned how great a gift is love, as I have --"

"Until _he_ has learned to trust, as I have," added Fanny.

"I am afraid they will never know contentment."

They were silent for some time. Then Fanny turned her face toward him to find him looking down at her with half a smile. He pushed her bonnet back a little and bent to kiss her.

"Your face is cold, Fanny."

"I am warm enough inside," she returned, pressing his hand under the blankets.

* * *

The carriage wheels crunched on gravel instead of hard earth.. Fanny had been reclining against her husband, but at the sound she sat up, alert and anxious.

"I know very well you will see plenty of which to disapprove," he said at her back, but with a laugh in his voice. "You don't like improvements, as I remember."

"I shall endeavor not to disapprove of all of them," she replied. But anxious not to offend, she turned towards him at once. "I am sure I shall love it, Henry. The summerhouse, especially, will give so much comfort and ease."

"Oh, you protest, but I know you. Never fear, we shall replant as many trees as you wish. You shall make it just what you like, and I shall always be happy as long as I have projects to arrange." Almost haltingly he added, "Fanny -- I hope Everingham will be in time as dear to you as Mansfield once was."

They turned a corner and the ground rose a little to reveal the house beyond -- her own house, and at last, her own home.

* * *

 **THE END**


End file.
